Two years ago, in the Fall, I was in the back seat of a car driving to the cottage for a Christmas in the mountains with my close friends.
I received a text from a girl, one I’d corresponded with a week or so before.
The text was short.
“I want to bleed for you.”
Attached, a picture. Her initials in red, cut in into her pelvis.
Another picture followed. And another. She was dressed in crimson.
She wanted me to come over one Saturday afternoon when her boyfriend was away and she was napping. I was to wake her with a hand over her mouth and a knife to her throat. I would bind her, leave her helpless, and then fuck her. She would struggle. I would cut her slightly to remind her of the danger.
It never happened; a couple of weeks later she was in a minor accident, and we lost touch.
Months later, kneeling over an angel, and preparing to draw wings along her back, I thought back on that conversation, in the back of a car in a cool November, and learned something important about my brand of devil.