Keeping my eyes on my cub, I unbutton my left shirt sleeve and roll it up to my elbow, then grab the knife I keep sheathed at my ankle. My blades are always razor-sharp, so it only takes the slightest pressure to puncture the skin on my forearm. Purposefully, knowing exactly what it takes not to sever the muscle tissue, I slowly drag the tip of a knife from my elbow toward my wrist. Blood runs down to my hand once I’m finished with the grisly deed, big red drops fall onto the sidewalk and land at my feet. The cut is shallow, but long enough to require several stitches. Enough of a reason for
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