Bruises

She likes looking at them in the mirror.

She's noticed that different coloured knickers can set off her bruises. She likes her red lacy knickers when they're fresh and dark, a black handprint against her pearl-white skin, made all the more noticeable by the scarlet lace above.

Perhaps it's just coincidence that the lace licks at her clit as she walks.

Logically, her mind revolts at the idea of being bruised, or it used to. Now, the thought of seeing his marks on her can make her knees tremble at the oddest of times: when she's getting out of the bath, trying on a dress in a shop, changing at the swimming pool.

When they don't see each other it's a tangible connection that brings every pain/pleasure moment gushing back to her.

One night she's taken into hospital. She can't breathe. The rattle in her chest has got too much and her airways have closed up. She has to fight for every breath. Her nails have turned blue and one eye has red road-maps criss-crossed across its surface. She knows asthma can kill you; she knows someone who died from it. But she's more afraid they'll make her wear a gown that will show her bruises.

She doesn't want to share them.