There's a morbidly inherant beauty to this act, he thinks.
Something perverse, wrong, but so right.
The way the ruby droplets squeeeze out of that thin line, sliding a slow path down his wrist, bungying off the edge, and then eventually coming to rest on his jeans, pooling then soaking a small, dark crimson patch in the denim.
The delicate ache radiating from that cut, that comforting sting that tells him he's still here, he's still mortal.
Still here.
Why, he asks himself.
Why am I still here?
Someone up there obviously likes me.
Or hates me.
He looks down at the cut milking red life force out of his body, away from him.
He can't help but feel relief. He has too much emotional baggage to carry around to have an unimportant component like bloody weigh him down.
Too hard.
I'm in the too hard basket.
He laughs almost inaudibly, at the impossibility of it all, the absurdity of it all.
Because his mother used to say that, and she always meant that he was the one who put her there. With his fucking problems.
Problems she couldn't fix.
Problems she wouldn't believe in.
Problems...that weren't hers.
He wants to touch it, make sure it's real, that something that beautiful and perfect could really come from his ugly insides. But then, that would break the illusion.
So he watches.
Waits.
Longs.
And soon it stops, and the beauty is gone.
Leaving another ugliness.
Again, he thinks.
But then that too will end, and he'll have more ugliness to deal with.
More.
Or less.