“Tell me,” whispered the voice from the shadows, so close it might have been my own thoughts given tongue. My hands always cold, “when did I first taste the ink.” a midnight long ago, when I dipped my finger into the bottle to press the stain of it against my lips. So as I could savor the memory of her shadow. The wax from the candle pooling like the virginal blood from her wilting cunt’s consumption. She had been watching me write, her breath a ragged thing, her fingers twitching at her sides as if she longed to tear the quill from my grasp and plunge it into her own flesh. I had not looked up, not then. But I had known. The way the air thickened between us, the way the silence coiled like a serpent around o eck,hot, uneven, the rhythm of a starving moll circling prey. The quill trembles in my fingers, though I know it is not fear that shakes me. It is the unbearable weight of fornication before the caul of moon calls her name, echoing the soltice, Hydrophobia.
Rated for ADULT(18+) 
First Taste of Ink
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