He grasped the knife with confidence as he brought it up to the meaty part of his left arm. Closing his eyes as the cool metal touched his skin, gasping as he cut and drew the blade along his skin.

Looking down at his arm, he felt the rush of adrenalin that followed these moments. He watched as the blood flowed over his arm, mesmerized. Nowadays the blood was the only thing that felt real. The sharp pain of the cut, the thick feel of the red fluids spilling out. It was his only reality.

Sometimes he wondered if he was already dead, and his body just hadn't got the message yet. The blood was his only link to this washed-out reality. A bright spot of color in a landscape of grey and white.

He let his head fall back against the wall, breathing deep and shaking. He was alive. He was real. He was hard. His uninjured hand slipped down between his legs, moaning softly as he pressed down.

He brought his cut arm up to his face. The color and smell and feel the only thing that kept him grounded as the pleasure moved trough him like a wave.

Shuddering as his body released itself, he slumped back against the wall, sliding down to lay on the floor. His breath came in pants, slowing now as the world once again slipped from his grasp.

After a few minutes he pushed himself up, his movements stiff and awkward now. His wound throbbed dully as he cleaned up the mess his cure had made and even more as he cleaned it, spreading disinfectant and bandaging it with an efficiency born from long practice.

The world was waiting, it would be there the next time he felt the need for his cure.