Spicy Hot
Lena cuts, a fine, deep incision, blood flows abundantly, covers the altar, flows onto the black stone.
Elsa no longer screams. She howls. An animal howl, primal, coming from the deepest part of her. Her body arches, writhes, her bonds creak, her skin pulls at the cuts.
"Stop," I say. "Enough."
Lena stops. She wipes the knife, places it on the altar, steps back.
Elsa lies, panting, covered with blood, sweat, tears. Her eyes are wide open, fixed, empty. She has crossed something. She is elsewhere.