| Paper Cuts by Tsunikoshi |
| I hate paper cuts. Those tiny lacerations of the skin that almost never bleed. They sting and burn as air rushes to meet nearly exposed flesh. It always happens when I’m looking for something in particular. An article or report that I’ve misplaced is always my intended target. As I leaf through stacks of unassuming and ambivalent pages it happens. Some ignored manuscript, angered by months of neglect, senses my nearness and bites. Hungering for blood but not strong enough to tear the skin it lashes out with all its might producing an annoyance of a wound. So unsatisfying I think all that pain and no blood. Not like when I cut myself. I love the feeling of the cold metal against my skin before I apply just the slightest of pressures. The key is to use a fresh, sharp razor blade. The old kind with the straight edge and no safety features. Even before the pain of the injury reaches my brain I can see the deep red blood swell around the silver blade. It builds until the amount is enough to overflow the depression made by the cut and now free it streams in a thin red line down my arm and into the water basin beneath my arm. I watch as the red droplets fall. Their density creating swirls of blood as it mixes with cold, clear water. Then the rush of pain hits me and tear well in my eyes. But I don’t stop, it feels too good. It is liberating. I continue to cut making another cut an inch lower than the first. I marvel at the blood again rising. The trick is to make the cuts far enough apart that the blood lines do not mix. Within a short time my arm is stripped in blood and the basin of blood water is alive with my essence. My head beings to tighten and all is forgotten except for the blood that still drips from my arm and the silent tears that drip from my cheeks. I could tell you that I cut to forget the past. A childhood filled with too friendly adults or an abusive mother. I could tell you that cutting is the only way I know to control the suppressed rage the burns silently within my chest. I could tell you that this pointless and repeated self-mutilation was an unheard and unseen cry for help. But we are not talking about me. We are talking about paper cuts. I hate paper cuts. |
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| Aug 2003 |