Blood spurted at the phone in syncopated rhythm, hitting the screen in specks and spatters and filling every other open space on the cream colored walls. squelch, splat. The almost silent whir of the machine acted as a metronome while her monologue continued. She had practiced it in the mirror too many times to let it be cut loose.
“We are all so obsessed with ourselves”
Her voice, was an anvil over the mechanical whir (it really was virtually silent, just like the marketing script had said), as she stuck her arm deeper into the hardware, the metal blade swallowing the flesh and bone creating a sinewy, chunky stew. more squelching, more splatter.
She was thankful she wore a pair of platform pumps that put her at a higher angle than she would normally stand, this way any gore or guts could squirt at the phone screen in a more dramatic nature and cover its surface with liquid viscous, a true romance of bodily fluids.
“maybe we should just like, chill a little bit.”
+++
She ran a brush through her hair while simultaneously putting a rouge color lipstick (’gifted’ of course) across her lips, puckering them into the lit around the edges mirror in front of her. The lip flip turned out perfect; just enough to give her the look of someone who had just given a good blow job, swollen with self satisfaction and a badge of honor.
Each morning she had this ritual. Brush, pucker, affirm. Mwah.
“I am beautiful.”
“I am strong.”
“I do what they tell me.”
“I am a rich bitch.”
