Words on a Page

He moves when he is touched by a sharp, cool metal on his shoulder. Only once again is he silent, holding his breath because of him. He starts slowly, dragging the nib over his skin, leaving the tracks cool as the ink dries. He closes his eyes and focuses on the movement of the pen in his body, but he is unsure of the letters he writes.

Her spine trembled as she finishes the first word with a thrill, a strange feeling of relief like a cleansing wound as she pulls it out of her and puts it on her skin.

You want to know what you wrote, and why. What he sees. He just said he wanted to write one word on him, that it would be like a playful art. But his pen goes forward, writing one, and a third. It is a strange feeling, to have these words taken away from him, but each one develops a sense of purity and purity, so he fights impatience and keeps himself motionless in his art.

He fills his back, writing it from his broad shoulders to his small waist. He thinks he'll probably stop there, but the pen goes on, drawing cool lines, biting his hips, down his thighs. He writes something small and complex behind his knees, and all he can do is not destroy it when he is tormented. His feathers are silent until he catches himself.

He continued, down with his leg, around his ankle twice, across the top of his foot to his toes. Even those that do not stay closed. The feeling is starting to feel like cleansing and like pouring. He stops and tries to speak, but then he snatches it away before he can speak. The alarm bells sharpened like the art of his pen, but as his protests rise within him, he grabs them and pulls them out, twisting them according to his purposes. He adjusts his journey, writing on the top of his leg as he writes on the back, covering him with ebon swirls and lines and dots. He can't move. He pays special attention to the hip, and then he continues to climb. She moves as the nib wears at her waist, but she calms him down by touching him, then rewards him with a ring around his navel and its upper sections in the abdomen. Many words surround his areolae. Its columns adorned his chest. His writing wraps black fingers around his throat, then runs down his arms. They are covered as they are all covered, endless lines of words that are not bold to read. More is written on the palms of his hands, ten on each finger. The little Chinese character is sitting on a web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger.

He does not leave the skin bare, not even the soles of his feet. Even if the penis is engraved, it is best handled with the touch of a finger until it becomes solid and then wraps around its neck like an ancient scroll. The scratching of the metal and the bite of the ink is almost unbearable, it hurts as if you were writing with a knife tip, not a pen. His hands are pounding, and the muscles are tight, but he forces himself to be quiet.

The last word he writes in the title of his language. As he slips the cap over the pen and climbs on his feet, bitter ink fills his mouth. His eyes sparkle with the joy of the finished artwork.

"Would you like to see it?"

The thought frightens him, but he cannot speak. He wants to refuse, but he nods. He directed her to a long mirror across the room and she felt doubtful. She is scared to see what you have turned her into. But his touch persists and does not waver; it pushes him forward with numb legs, forcing him to see what he looks like.

He stands in front of the mirror and looks at himself. Thousands of words cover her, written in open, flowing text and strong, official print. Most are English, but many are not. He knows the languages ​​of love, he understands some Italian and most French. You see some of them, vaguely. He thinks he sees Russian, written in a long line running down the valley of his spine, but it may be another Cyrillic language. You see Vietnamese and Korean and Thai, German and Greek and Hindi. One hand is covered in Sanskrit, the other in twelve Gaelic versions.

He is covered with a myriad of letters, and hundreds of languages, and each one is a line written in his soul. Patience is written on his loins, Enthusiasm on one bony knee. Love builds a circle above his heart and holds within it Pain and Hope and Hope. The light follows the slope of one clavicle, the other Shadow. Pence and Absolution and Sin performed manacles on his wrists.

No, he would not. No, there is nothing deceptive in me. You are wrong. What did he do? But he can no longer speak for himself. He had taken the words from her and kissed them on the skin so that they could be seen by everyone. She is more visible now than she was when she was naked. Her throat column contains ink Mysteries and Lies and long lines of text can be heard from inside her, things she had swallowed long ago and vowed never to say.

He was screaming, cursing at her for doing this, but there is not a word left. She was crying, but the pain was gone. He may be angry, but Zondo is no more. He is an empty shell, and he has made it so. Her skin is weak, stained with her blood ink. Her heartbeat is a quiet rumble of leaves, answered with a careful hand. The impure combination of what once described him thought and knowledge and life, has been mixed with the sweeping lines of color and ink, which define him, shutting him down. Nothing but page names.