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Pain Like No One Else Can Feel

The blade cut through my skin, and I winced, although inwardly shuddering with pleasure. It was like nothing I had ever felt before, letting everything that pained me run down my wrist from the shallow slice in my hand. I stared at it for a while, waiting for my breath to even from the pain and pleasure induced trembling. I watched as it slowly crawled its way down the side of my hand. Suddenly, the urge to lick it off, the wonder of what it tastes like passed its way through my head. I shook it off. I wasn’t a vampire. “It’s so red. Like paint. Red paint…” I whispered, blinking stupidly at it. The knife was still clutched in my hand, and as I gripped it tighter, I noticed it.
“He filled our veins with paint…” I said, putting it to my hand again. “Pretty red paint…” I repeated the words again, and they became like a psychotic little song, pulsing quietly from my lips, though never once did I hear it in my head until I stopped singing it later in the evening. I took it away from my hand, and put it lower on my arm, coating the edge with the blood from my hand.
“I might as well not let it get infected.” I told myself, inside my head. I was still singing the words. I left my room, then, and went to the bathroom. Dad was downstairs, playing with one of the dogs on the couch by the TV. I looked down to him and the dogs. He didn’t look up at me from his roost on the sofa. He didn’t notice that I was still carrying the knife. I looked away from him and into the bathroom, my destination.
“Our veins are filled with paint…Pretty red paint. He filled our veins with paint…” The psychotic little verse had gained new words, but I didn’t notice. I was washing my hands. The blood from the cuts went with the water down the drain, and I kept my hand under the faucet.
“What the hell is wrong with me…?” This time the words came from my mouth, and not my head. The knife went to my hand again, and I took aim. I lifted my arm; let it drop limply so the knife would make a new shallow cut. I wouldn’t do it myself, just let the sharpness of the blade do it for me. I was too chicken s**t. But this time, I didn’t let it hit my hand. My sanity had finally made its appearance. Silently, I went back to my room, back to the dull blade. I pressed it hard against my palm, feeling the tingling pain. I was careful of the fresh cuts when I placed the knife to my hand again, and closed my fingers around it to press it more firmly to my hand. There was again the tingling pain. The verse wound its way around the room; it seemed, by way of a child like voice that sang them. My ears heard it, but my mind was too hazed to register it. Finally, I sheathed both knives, and put them away. I went downstairs, quietly singing my new tune, and in search of something to eat. My semblance of sanity, though slow in its return, was making its come back, little by little.