He closes his fingers around your throat. Even though you are a gaping wound. His blood drips over you. You say: No. His hold tightens. You grab his wrists. He snarls but relents. You guide his hands inside you. This is important. He needs to know. His breathing is shallow. What? There’s a hiss to it. That you're human? It's barely there. Maybe. His fingers twitch. That you are a body. They're warm. Goosebumps rise over what remains of you. You are. You let go. Your heart still beats. Somehow. You think that maybe you didn’t cut him deep enough. Maybe he hasn’t hit you hard enough. Maybe you’re both going to survive. Maybe you're trapped doing this tangled over the precipice forever.