Feeling good

It was the novocaine that was being rhythmically pumped in my veins. I could feel it, savor it. My body was aching with an indescribable, forbidden, pleasure. Rocking forwards and backwards, chin looking to the ceiling. Broken mirrors.


Your eye. Staring, seeing but not watching. I didn't care about that fucking impersonal and provocative look anymore.


It was just one blue eye in the night. 


Closed room, number 415. No lights, your damn eye.
Blood and walls, nothing else at my sight. I was glancing steadily to the only non-broken mirror in the darkness. I was feeling peculiarly free knowing you weren't. You belong to me. Maybe, your eye does know so.

And it was there, just lying there, in one of those pieces of glass. One blue eye. 
I took it, analysed it. Felt the edge cutting my palm, your eye's revenge. But I was still focused. 
You looked at me with horror, I was able to taste it. Delicious.


I smiled,
still holding you between my wounded fingers. I couldn't help touching you with my lips, as if I were kissing your eye. Blood mattered to me no more. 
Just held you stronger.


And dropped you through the window.
Heard you screaming and crying with pain.


Your eye was finally dead, and dark my room and you.