He beseeched, yet I chuckled While sipping a quart of his blood. I drank while his flesh turned wan, and I touched him as his body turned cold.

“I am afraid you are quite pitiful,” I said. So I placed him in a garment bag to muffle his irksome sounds. Indeed, I have just dissociated, for such self-loathing simmers inside me. Such repugnance compels me to slay myself time again. And I ask, will suicide be my escort to the grave?

I can hear moaning beneath the bed, but I don’t respond, For the slightest thought of him spawns rage. So disgraceful he is, I flagellate him until content.

And then he whimpers, as I reach for needle and sutures, as flashbacks of hateful, humiliating degradation bring me to my knees. I unzip the garment bag and craftily sew his lips. His eyes roll back. I do believe I can finally rest.

But stark darkness and utter ruin continually reign in my psyche. I have given myself to fallen angels to do with him as they desire. My eyes peer at the man beneath the bed, as I point the barrel of a shotgun beneath his chin.

But I cannot bring myself to do it. Once again I ask. Will suicide be my escort to the grave?