Ann Demeulemeester Fall/Winter 2006
Lorcain: “…y’make tha’ sunnav’ae bitch remember O’Kieran, boyo. You make ‘im earn his fuckin’ box ‘ome, yeah?”
The knives came out, then, the crying executioner already lay on the ground before him. One slice took an ear, the another left the nose misshapen and bloodied. As he brought himself level with the young man, Lorcain tossed the snippet of flesh into his own mouth, chewing gleefully as he leaned in for the final cuts. A smile. A grim, bloody smile.
For the next hour, they passed the knife about, each of them torturing the boy until he expired..until even the strongest injections they gave him couldn’t keep him up.
Even now, years down the line, Lorcain knew that when his head hit the pillow. That boy would be watching him, the man that earned his way into rebellion through -his- blood. That alone would be enough to explain the bottle stashed in the nightstand.
"Comme des Garçons" by Erza | Love #11 Spring/Summer 2014.
Christian Dior, 1957
The Victoria & Albert Museum