Leaning heavily against my chair, I was cutting paper for no apparent reason, bored out of my mind, the perfectly straight one inch strips landing in a pile on the desk, the carpet, my lap. Then, an idea drifted idly into my head. I looked at the scissors slowly slicing through the white sheet in my hand, a tiny spurt of life worming its way into my long dead interest. I was vaguely curious. What if it was my hand, not the paper, those blades were cutting? I continued to stare at the scissors go, cutting, cutting, cutting. More snowy strips drifting down. Would I feel anything? Would it hurt? I move the scissors to the edge of my palm, between the thumb and pointer finger, and close my fingers around the handles, pressing down on them, watching with no particular purpose as the blades went in, in, in, and the flesh giving way, red sluggishly seeping out, painting my pale sun-deprived skin, blood that reminded me so much of paint. It seemed like it was happening in slow motion. It seemed so surreal. The blades met each other. I didn't feel anything. Why? I saw people cry, I saw people laugh, I saw people get angry, happy, sad, guilty, hurt. A kaleidoscope of emotions. Emotions I didn't understand, didn't feel. They said things like "it's cold" and "it's hot" or "I hate this" and "I hate that" or "I love this." What did they mean? Cold, hot, hate, love. I didn't understand. What do they mean?

I started snipping more, arbitrarily deciding to cut perfectly straight one inch strips. More stuff fell to the carpet, staining it with spots of vermillion.

I was sitting in a pure white straitjacket that matched the completely white and empty room I was locked in, staring indolently at nothing in particular. There wasn't anything to look at except for the white, stainless wall. I was in here for attempted suicide. Why? I wasn't trying to kill myself. I was just trying to see how much flesh I could cut out before it hurt. There was no intent to kill myself. Those people were the crazy ones... Why would they think I would kill myself? They're crazy... Well, maybe out of boredom, but I wasn't trying to take my life. I was just doing an experiment, a simple experiment. You know, the things scientists do. Those people were so close-minded. Crazy people... accusing others of their madness. My parents were the ones who got me in this barren room with absolutely nothing to do. My head fell back against the wall. Ah... I'm so bored... Good old Mom had no concept of privacy; she just walked in the room and screamed at the sight of all the blood on me and the carpet. Oops... guessed I should've locked the door. She screeched for my old man to come up. They kicked up a huge fuss—those noisy idiots...—and now here I was. Whether I wanted to or not, this was my home now. Oh, the joy... Bored... There's still nothing to do here, but stare at the white, white walls. I'm so bored. Time for another experiment. My teeth dug into my tongue, mouth filling with liquid and the metallic taste of blood. Home, sweet home...