I run a finger over the blade, wondering what it will feel like. I've gotten cut before, of course, but those were on accident, and the cuts weren't that deep. This should feel different. I mean, it has to, right? There is something profoundly different about wielding the knife as it slices into your skin, as opposed to nature getting revenge. My palm is sweaty on the hilt of the blade, and I take a deep breath. I watch as the metal comes closer and closer to my arm. I don't remember having made the decision to move. I feel the cold steel press against my skin and just rest there. I take another breath, and slide the knife along my forearm, pressing down.