He does not stare for long. The diagonal slash aligned somewhere between recklessness and cowardice. He cares less than he should. Edges quivering like the wet, slack lips of a drunk. It does not bleed as he imagined. Neither thick sluggish streams, nor the loose flow of red satin spilling from a tabletop.
He doesn't think too much about what courage or despair it took; what shard of steel or splintered glass has done this thing. Only that it is done. What he thinks about most is how immediately he offers it forth. Thrusting pale skin with ragged embellishment toward its audience. Displayed. An exhibit.
Look at THIS.
THIS is serious.
He raises his eyes in challenge but he sees only her. Scribbling, eyes lowered, calmly waiting. Listening.
Jolted from his storytelling, he finds rare, hot tears welling and hears himself say "No one's ever asked me that before”.
"Well, someone should have", she says.