Johnny set his blade on the bare flesh of his right side.  Cut in.  Cut deep.  Still bled a little, which was good.  Felt no pain.  Reached in, snapped a brittle rib, pulled it out.  Slapped it on his kitchen table and called the Devil.  Asked for love.  Didn’t get it. 

He downed a bottle of bourbon and went out.  Found a cemetery.  Dug a hole with his hands and buried himself in the Kentucky soil.  Breathed in dirt, and tried to sleep.

Ana let the thrum of screeching guitars slam into her.  Let them jolt her bones.  She turned, writhing on the beer-soaked ground of the club, found a naked torso.  She bit into it and let blood pour over her.  It filled the holes she’d made in herself.  Seeped in, but left her feeling as empty.  She got up.  Threaded her way through a sea of naked bodies.  Danced.  Laughed, despite it all.

Outside, she took a deep breath.  Paused.  Felt a tingling deep in her cunt.  Under the black leather and lace, she was burning.  She moved, followed the pull, felt the fire build with each step.  Two blocks down.  Across a street carpeted with red and brown autumn leaves that covered it and trembled along with her in the warm breeze.  The gates to the cemetery had been broken open from the inside for weeks now.  She slipped past open graves, dirt clawed through from deep within and left in piles.  She found the one that was freshly filled in.  Waited.