"You're wrong." I said, reaching up to touch his face. "I want to know everything about you."
With a sigh, he dropped his hands, looking down. My fingers lingered at his cheek for a moment longer before I released him, taking him by the hand instead.
"Tell me." I ordered, though it came out less forcefully than I had hoped. I wasn't able to create anything louder than a whisper.
Pulling his hand away, John picked up the glittering glass from the coffee table. He turned it around in his fingers, looking at the way the light scattered from different angles. It was beautiful, I had to admit, but the blood encrusting the sharpened point turned my stomach.
I watched his face as he turned his arm so that his wrist as facing upwards, and lay the edge of the glass against his skin.
John had a frown on his face, but it wasn't a frown of expectancy or disgust. He wasn't waiting for the pain to come. I felt it was a frown of reluctance - reluctance to let me see the things to come.
He looked up then, his eyes locking with mine.
"Come with me." He said simply, before slashing across his arm with one swift movement.
"No!" I screamed, making to grab for his hand and stop him from cutting himself. But it was too late - the deed was done.
I watched in horror as bright blood spilled from the deep wound, covering the leather sofa and dripping to the floor. I felt the dizzy spin of faintness and tried my best to take deep breaths and compose myself for John.
I didn't know why I'd trusted him. He was clearly just as insane as I was - perhaps more so -, and I had just sat there, watching, waiting. And now if I didn't pull myself together, he would die.
I stood up abruptly, stumbling my way to the kitchen. Picking up a tea towel from the counter, I staggered back to the main room where John sat.
It took me a moment to realise where the bright light was coming from.