The cutting of one’s skin, the dividing of human flesh, can happen in several ways:
There is the quick jab, like a needle or the slip of a knife while chopping vegetables, virtually painless in the moment, yet growing in discomfort as the medicine is applied or salt seeps into the wound. Pain level – minimal, a no when you ask a stranger on a date.
There is then the larger cut with a duller instrument, like concrete on the knee after a bike crash or the newly trimmed nails of a cat, painful in the moment, painful in the cleaning, leaving an ugly scar to commemorate the event. Pain level – medium, your best friend moves away for a new job.
There is the slower, deliberate, self-inflicted cut, made with the dull hunting knife your grandfather gave you for Christmas, dragged knowingly down the vein in your wrist, needing excuses of dish washing accidents to cover the gash all can see. Pain level – intense, when your child wants you out of their life at 16.