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Look upon me. See this gash upon my arm? Running from wrist to elbow, a fissure twixt Ulna and Radius? You don’t know what it is. It’s a gash, sure, but you don’t know what it’s from. You don’t know why the flesh is red and pure, yet blood slithers naught from this wound. You don’t know what it does, what it wants, when it will heal.
But I do.
It’s pain. I like pain. I love to see the blade go through and pull back; I love to see the muscles twitch and spasm as the brain tries to respond. I love how the face contorts into unimaginable forms, a smile now a twisted knothole. I love the flare and the sting. I've loved it ever since the man came and stabbed me. And then I stabbed him. And I saw his face warp in surprise and pain, he grabbing his arm and yelling in pain as the blood oozed through his fingers.
It felt so exhilarating, so beautiful to my ears... I didn't even notice the hole in my arm until he ran away, with his pain. And then I noticed the wound. The reminder.
It craves to feel pain. So I come after other people so we can both feel how beautiful and focused pain is.
No, don’t walk away; I’m not finished yet. Come here, come here I said. I’m not through with you. Come on; a burning cigarette is nothing. It’s pure ecstasy and a small circle.
Where are you going? Come on, you’re old enough. Just let me place the cigarette on your head, okay? Then we can have a smoke together. And then we can both enjoy pain. I’ll show you just how beautiful it is.