December 2002?

Quick thrusts of the hand as the blade slices through soft supple skin. How quickly the blade slides against the flesh, guided by its self, having no master to direct the handle. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, thirty-six seconds before those crimson welts appear. By then, it's too late. So many cherry marks mar that once smooth pale skin. Too many cuts to count. so many blood red stains contrasting against an ivory background. Long, short, deep, shallow, intersecting, parallel. So many cuts of so many types, not a single uniform. Finally, the sting sets in. Forty-three cuts crying out in pain. Burning droplets trail down cheeks. what have I done to myself? The realization of self-mutilation pains the heart more than the cuts on the body.