“You’re through to Crisis Line. My name is Jen, how can I help you tonight?”
Silence. Heavy breathing.
“It’s ok to take your time. I’m here to help.”
“I need to talk…”
“That’s what I’m here for. Do you want to tell me your name?”
The sound of a bottle being unscrewed.
“My name don’t matter. I feel the need. The need is back again.”
“I see, what need are you talking about?”
“Are you thinking of self harming?”
“I need to see the blood. I need to smell the iron. I need to taste it.”
“I need to watch it flow from the veins, over pale white skin and pool on the floor…”
“I need to savour that last breath leaving the body. I need to watch the spark of light die in her eyes.”
“Her eyes? Sir, did you just say, ‘her eyes’?”
“Yes. Or,” his voice lowers, almost seductively, “Jen, maybe I need to watch the life leave your eyes, those pretty grey eyes of yours…”
Her blood ran cold.
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