Blood

The silver instruments were strewn all over the room; flung to every corner, covering every foot of tiling. He had everything there. Scissors and razors and paring knives glinted in the candlelight. He picked each one up, examining them carefully. He slid the cutting edge of each tool across his thumb - not hard enough to cut the skin, but enough to gauge its ability. The room was a mess, a sharp contrast to the orderly way he carried out each action. Like he was completely detached from any emotion. After analyzing each component of his deadly collection, he picked up a thumb tack. His left arm extended forward until his hand was lying limp, palm up, as far away as it would stretch. Slowly and deliberately he let the sharp end of the tack glide over his skin. Back and forth, but always following the same path. After a few minutes a red line appeared, diagonally crossing a field of scars already on his forearm. The scars were like memories cut into his body, each one had been done with purpose and meaning. It was funny how obvious they were and yet no one noticed, or rather no one chose to notice. As he continued, the blood slowly oozed out of the fresh wound. His hand was steady, his face showed no hint of emotion. His eyes never left the site. Not once did he even flinch.1

Staring into the gash seemed to whet his appetite for the activity. He stood up and walked over to the full length mirror. It was dusty and unused, it had been months since he had bothered about his appearance. He took off his t-shirt and wiped some dust off the mirror to make a small round circle. Thumbtack still in hand, he pressed it into his flesh. Small pricks dotted his skin. For each dot he push the pin into his skin as far as the pin structure would let him, and then he would twist it out, watching the blood pour out as out of a vat of wine. He set the tack down on a towel, not wiping off the blood from the tool or his arm. He removed a chunk of glass from the partly-shattered mirror and pulled it across his chest. This time the bood flowed out quickly, as if he had caught his body by surprise. His face now began to show emotion, but not of sadness or regret, it instead expressed frustration. He was still unsatisfyed, felt no achievement like he usually did. He dropped to the floor in a sitting postion, staring around him again at the instruments surrounding him. His ritual repeated as he picked them all up again thoughtfully. Each one he discarded. Finally he sat there, no instruments or objects, looking defeated. His eyes were wild and edgy, he could barely sit still, the intense need was growing more and more within him. Staring at his arm he put a finger to the wound to examine it. Tracing his scars he wound his way up the inside of his arm, towards his elbow. Then his urges took back over and his nail slid across his skin down to his wrist following a blue vien. It was amazing what damage a fingernail could do. But this was no secret to him. Soon this cut was as bad, and then worse than the others. He could not stop himself. He wanted release, he wanted to finally be free. Every emotion that he had pushed down deep inside of him sprung up and expressed themselves though his hands. His eyes were tearing and his nails were ripping at the skin, slashing until it resembled his feelings inside.2