Cutting

Jonathan walked up the steps to the front entrance, stepping carefully over the patches of ice remaining from Wednesday’s storm. The door had never seemed quite so talk to him, but then, Martin had always been here at the door, waiting for him. Tonight he was not.

Jonathan knocked – but after minutes, no answer. He turned the nob. Unlocked. Walked in, slowly, calling Martin, where are you? He turned on the light in the hallway, looked up the stairs – so silent, so dark, those shadows at the top of the stairs from the candelabra on the upper hallway table – Jonathan’s pulse raced even further.

Martin was playing a game. He’d be lying in bed, ready for him, on his stomach, his thighs pulsing. He wouldn’t say a word, he’d submit himself to Jonathan. Normally, Jonathan would discard his clothing before even reaching the door. Not tonight – on this night, he’d be taking off his clothes after he’d finished, burning them in the basement furnace, donning the travel suit he’d planted in Martin’s closet weeks ago.

He walked up the stairs, making barely a noise. The door remained ajar, and through it Jonathan could see Martin’s legs on the bed. Just as he’d imagined – on his stomach, waiting for Jonathan to enter. Jonathan felt the rush of blood to his center, but ignored the thrill. Tonight, he needed the focus.

He touched the door, opening it further, and screamed. Martin lay on the bed, a pool of blood surrounding his head, his torso, blood coming out of his mouth still. And as he screamed, he felt a burning weight of a thousand pounds pour into his back, and as he fell to the floor, the pain jittering from his back, into his stomach, tasting blood in his mouth, he saw Martin, lying there in blood, and remembered their love.