…was a memory I had of a woman I owned.
Upon her skin I had carved my name in bold, bloody letters. The scar, still quite evident when we split, is an image I will carry with me for some time. It wasn’t done lightly, on my part or hers. It involved a glass of brandy - and eventually shards of broken glass. Her skin, rubbed, scented with the fine liquor, quivered under the edge. She cried when it happened. I licked the wounds with my tongue. Blood and brandy.
Now she wears my name forever. Others have likely traced the outline with their fingertips in a vain effort to erase the mark. It is a reminder to me not to be casual with my affection. I’m sure it reminds her much the same.