A knife has ploughed into my wrist, tearing my veins like little blood-red strings. A knife is maneuvering through my arteries slicing and dicing like a butcher. The tip of the blade has survived the journey to the other side of my wrist leaving a cavernous hole of flesh and mangled meat. The knife is not done, it wants more flesh. Blood is spurting onto the floor, Morphing into a scenic red painting. The blood looks like grape juice spilling out of my straw of an artery.
Did you think that the knife was the slaughterer? A hand is directing the knife. A hand is training the knife to carve out my mashed wrist into smuttier mesh. The fountain of blood spraying around the room is making me dizzy. My ruby eyes follow the faint pathway of the hand controlling the piercing blade; up the forearm, round the elbow, along the shoulder, till I can't look anymore. Why? I'd be glaring into my own ruby red eyes, wouldn't I?