Frank Cut Himself

FRANK CUT HIMSELF TODAY

Frank cut himself. It didn’t happen when shaving this morning or while slicing cantaloupe for breakfast. His axe was steady on target chopping firewood at ten, and there was no slip of the clippers while trimming roses an hour ago.

Frank cut himself today. He did it on purpose, intentional, and right on schedule. The urge probably started last week; he wasn’t sure; it didn’t matter. The plan grew quickly after that. She would be gone for three to four hours tonight--including travel--at an Ala-non meeting. (Lately, she has been going out for ice cream with a friend after the meeting.) Frank liked that. He had the top drawer of a worn-out chest-of-drawers out in the garage stuffed with enough al-cohol to get near drunk but not enough to pass out. She would leave at six, and he could drink at 6:01. He would cut and be asleep or pretend to be sleeping when she got home.

Frank cut himself today with a utility knife. The goal was not suicide. No. He did not want to slice the prime artery. This new cut was only for pain. Pushing the lever on the side of the knife forward to adjust the amount of blade exposed, he set the depth at about 1/4th of an inch. Then he positioned the tip of the polished razor blade on his inner left arm about seven inches up from the wrist and pressed down. The flesh gave way at first like a finger-poked balloon. Pushing slowly, squeezing the knife tight in his right hand, Frank pressed the hard steel steady into his arm until the skin gave way no further. At this point he paused, smiling slightly, waiting, and then continued the pressure ever so slowly while holding his breath. As climax approached, tense and tight, the stiff blade suddenly punctured his warm skin with a faint popping sound. In that eternal second, the firm steel plunged in, slicing through moist, pink tissue that seemed to clench and pull the stiff blade deeper inside. He closed his eyes, released his breath, and felt the magic. That was the best part, the perfect moment, his private thrill. The pain was fantastic. Frank now had a razor tip buried in his arm about 1/4th of an inch deep ready for the cut.

Holding his breath again while pulling the razor blade toward him slowly for about one half of an inch, white skin folding open allowing easy access inside, created intense pain. Then a quick slash down, across, and out into the air made a red line about two inches long and a quarter-inch deep. All the inner pain released at once: “ahhhhhh”. Tension, self-hate, suicide thoughts, de-pression, and feeling trapped: it all spilled out together. Blood started pouring immediately. Frank held his arm over the sink spell-bound as the bleeding increased. Dark-red blood streamed along the cut line, flowed down, around, and underneath his forearm, drop after drop splashing onto the white basin flowing to the drain. Although he knew otherwise, Frank wondered each time whether he had cut the ultimate artery. That flash thought, that moment of uncertainty was worth gold. Just the brief possibility of death was enticing enough for now. Suicide may yet oc-cur, but not today, not this time. And now he watched the blood feeling relieved at last.

An even drip at first, it always seemed as if the bleeding would never stop. If he clinched his fist, the flow slowed. When opening his fingers, it rushed out similar to the first gush. Blood slipping down the drain is his wasted, lost, and ruined life. In five or so minutes, the bleeding slows down. Fewer drops splash into the sink. It is done, the ritual near complete--only the clean up routine remains.

He runs warm water a few times over the slash, mopping up with toilet paper, takes one longing look at his excellent cut, and presses a large band-aid over the bright red gulch. He will look at the cut daily for a few weeks; scars are fascinating.

Frank cut himself today with a utility knife. It felt good, and he is glad he did it. He feels an odd, strange, somewhat pleasant sensation while slipping back into the swirl of insanity.