Sharp Edges

Fantasize is certainly the wrong word, but I know none closer. I was fascinated -- like the bird by the snake. I was enchanted -- like the snake by the charmer. I was obsessed -- like a fetichist with his worship. I don't know if there is a word strong enough for such a feeling. Depressed, I would lie curled up in fetal position, struggling with all my Will to push back the other will -- my own -- to injure myself. The struggle would exhaust me, leave me debilitated, half catatonic, unable to communicate

It was always hands or arms, for me. Perhaps we identify our hands with our ability to act in the world. When all acts seem evil and worthless, it is our hands which are at fault. Our hands must be washed clean, or punished.

It was always cutting, for me. For some, fire; for others, caustics, or tearing. For me, the clean cut holds fascination. I could nearly feel the clean straight bite of a sharp shining blade, how it would slice deeper into my flesh as I drew its edge along the chosen spot.

I imagined: Never the fool's cut -- crossways across the inner wrist, ruining the tendons, making cuts in the veins that will clot and close almost as soon they form. Perhaps between the fingers, slowly but firmly splitting my hand down to the base of the palm. More often between the thumb and the first finger, sawing through the great web of muscle which makes us the toolmakers that we are. Perhaps driving the point through the back of my forearm, or wrist, with my weight behind it. When I yearned to lose blood, a slow precise probe with the point, delicately exposing and splitting lengthwise the great veins along the inner wrist and forearm.

Sometimes when I was not depressed I would flirt with it, toying with a knife, pressing the edge ever so gently against the back of my arm, trying the newly sharpened blade on the base of my thumb. Over time I learned to bring a knife to a razor-like edge, so that I could dry-shave hairs off the back of my arm with a gentle stroke. When I was depressed, I kept the knives well away from myself, except when I needed to use them in cooking or for practical purposes. Somehow they never held a threat then; how could I feel a sinister fascination for something I was chopping carrots or opening a box with? I never did try to cut myself; my safety interlocks held firm.

I don't dream this any more. Over 10 years, or 20 years, it has faded. My knives are my friends now, my tools, my servants. Even in pain, I no longer wish Pain. My will is my own.

I have a new dream now; I will tell it to you one day.

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