Theogeny -- The Forked Stick

Marta holds the long black-handled knife loosely, letting the sharp tip run over the skin of Anthony's back. The boy is on his stomach on the bed, naked and sated, conscious but utterly immobile on the damp sheets. Marta wonders if he would move if she pressed the metal harder into him.

Outside the window, a seagull screams; the sound is the cry of a hungry baby. The water slaps at the shore, and the tiny shellfish that cling to the stone at the waterline open and close their mouths and drink deleriously, as they do every moment of their lives.

Marta points the knife toward herself, runs it up her arm, across her shoulder, to the top of her right breast. She presses the point against her skin a little harder, a little harder, and though the pressure is gradual the pain is sudden. It is a tiny cut, and the drop of blood that wells up clings to the surface and dries as she watches, not flowing down her skin or staining the sheets.