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You look for a background that looks like blood splatters, or human brains smeared against a wall.

You tell the boy, "lift your arms" and the boy grins out of this world.

You apply chains and the boy's grin tautens and the boy's upper body tautens.

The boy's wrists protrude, the small chicken bones there where the hand wilts. The boy's armpits are a perfect mask in which to conceal your face. The boy's ribs stick out like blades burried beneath its skin.

You tell the boy, "this is going to make a perfect background for my blog. After some tweaking with photoshop."

The boy is grinning and trying to strike a pose. You think that this boy's perfect body would be a suitable punching bag. But you are a pacifist and don't like the violence that is not inflicted upon you. It's not like you respect the boy. The boy who would do anything for money or fame or sex or drugs. The boy's jesus-christ-on-the-cross loins.

"There's something missing"

You don't have a spear but you take the sharp kitchen knife you usually use to separate meat from bone. The boy's grin (triumphant and self-complacent up to now, like mockery pointed at you) slackens into something confused, maybe scared, but mostly confused.

When you slide the blade across his stomach, it's only a whisper of blood but the boy's eyes and mouth and jaw reaarange themselves into this 'what the fuck' facial expression.

"Don't struggle or i might truly hurt you" and this is definitely not your intention. "I'm just letting out a little blood" and sliding blade at flesh aligned to a rib bone.

"Why?"

"You know, in the old times, they used to draw blood as a cure for the body. Don't worry. Look, i don't cut too deep. I'm just making you more beautiful."

The boy just hangs there, limp and wasted, looking down at you and the butcher knife.

"It's good for the soul." You look up to meet the boy's vacant facial expression. "I know, you don't believe in the existence of a 'soul'. I don't think i believe in it either."

You just want to see what it means to be and feel human. But this specimen hanging from the chains - an abattoir - nobody would know - nobody would notice - the smell of dead blood - the smell of rotting flesh - you could have a friend that never talks back - a lover to hide against when the world gets too loud -

You dare not touch him even though you want to lick the tinsel of red dripping from the shallow cuts.

When all is done, you lay on the floor, holding the knife, listening to the boy's offended steps down the stairs.