Marcel lay, foetal, staring at her bare back. The limited amount of freckles made it pleasing to his eye. He didn’t like to be distracted with games of dot-to-dot moles when he should be in awe of the flesh before him.
The image of a stiletto dagger, silver and sharp, then filled his mind’s hand. As always. He felt the weight and the leather hilt strapping and was satisfied.
He used to see himself carving bloody murals into the women’s backs. Sometimes he would leave his name, before cutting out the victims spines.
These days, Marcel was content to feel the weapon and then allow it to fade from his grip.
Il s’améliorait, tu vois.