My Knife Can Cut

I have a knife and I want to cut someone. Not in a fight. I want someone who wants to be cut.

I remember this girl, a cutter. When she felt numb, she said, she cut herself. Usually on the arm, up high. Or high up on her leg. That was so her clothing would hide the scars. Her name is Ramona. I met her at a party. She was drunk. I guess that's why she told me about cutting. Or maybe she could tell I'm numb too.

My knife is beautiful. It's a kitchen knife, a Christmas present. It seems a shame the knife has never cut anyone. I look Ramona up in the phonebook and call her.

"Hello?"

It's a Sunday afternoon. Around two. She's only spoken one word. Still, I can hear it. Her voice is full of sleep and sadness.

"Ramona. This is Derek. How are you?"

"Derek?" she says.

"We met at a party. In Westboro."

There's a long pause, as she thinks. I can almost hear the wheels grinding together.

"When was that?" she asks.

"Last year. At David's house. His 30th birthday."

Another pause.

She says, "That was two and a half years ago."

"Oh. Okay."

I'm bad with dates and time.

"Derek?" she says again. She's still trying to place me.

"Right."

Another long pause.

"I don't remember you."

"We sat in the kitchen. You were drunk. We talked. I'm kind of bald. Glasses. Fat."

Something clicks in her head. But it's not a memory of me. It's a question she should ask. "Why are you calling me?"

"Do you still cut yourself?"

"What?" she says. Then, too quickly, "No. I don't. I don't do that anymore. That was a long time ago."

"Oh," I say. And I can't hide my disappointment.

"Did I tell you about that? At that party? Christ. Did I?"

"Yes, you told me."

"Oh my god. I'm so embarrassed. God."

Ramona doesn't sound embarrassed. She sounds excited. She likes it. She likes me knowing her secret. Even if she doesn't remember me.

"So you don't do it anymore?" I ask. "Cut yourself?"

Another pause. The wheels grind again.

"Not as often," she says carefully. "I'm a lot better, now. Why? Why are you asking?"

"I have a knife," I say. "It's a beautiful knife. It's long and it's hard. It's shiny. The whole thing. Even the handle is shiny. It's one big piece of metal, carved into a knife. It's the most beautiful knife in the world. And I want to cut someone. But I want them to want it. I don't want to hurt a stranger. I want to sit down with someone. I want them to expose the flesh, where I'll cut. I want to feel the knife cut. I want to feel the person being cut. I want to hear the sounds they make. I want to see how they jerk and twitch. And then I remembered you. And I thought you could come over."

"You're sick," Ramona says. "You're a sick fucking asshole. This isn't funny. Who do you think you are? You can't just call me. More than two fucking years later. You can't just call and say this. You're sick. This isn't a funny joke. You're sick in the head."

And she hangs up on me.

I wait half an hour and then I call her back.

"Hello?" she says, breathless. Excited.

"Ramona, it's Derek again."

"What, Derek?" she asks, angry. "What do you want?"

"It's not a joke," I say. "It's the most beautiful knife if the world. It's not a joke."

A long pause.

"Hello?" I say. I think she's hung up again.

"Where do you live?" she asks.

I tell her.

"Give me an hour."

I sit on the couch. I stare at the wall. I wait for the buzzer to buzz.

It's January. There's snow everywhere. It's cold. My apartment is warm, even though the heat is off. The surrounding apartments keep mine warm.

When Ramona arrives, she's bundled up. She comes in to my apartment, not saying anything. Her yellow coat has a fur-lined hood. Her white boots have a ruff of fur. Her scarf is a rainbow pattern, with matching mittens. All of these clothes come off. She lets them fall to the floor. Like she doesn't care.

Underneath are black jeans, a blue t-shirt, bare feet. Her hair is short, dyed yellow. No make-up. She is slightly pudgy. Small, but okay boobs. Nice, fat ass. Pretty, in a way. But there's something crazy-looking about her face. Her eyes are huge, blue, terrified. The corners of her mouth droop, even as she smiles. She tries smiling now, nervous. Her smile looks broken.

Ramona says, "I don't even know why I'm here."

She knows why she's here. But I don't correct her.

Her eyes lock on to mine. Her pupils tremble and spin.

"Do you want to see it?" I ask her.

"See what?" she asks, and licks her lips.

"The knife."

"Oh. Sure. I guess."

"Have a seat," I say, pointing at a couch. "Wait here."

I go into the kitchen. When I come back, she's sitting right on the edge. Tense.

I hold out my hands, palms up. The knife is lying on my hands. A holy thing. It glows in the dim light. Ramona looks at it. Her pupils twitch in her motionless eyes.

"It is beautiful," Ramona admits. She reaches out.

I back away. "Don't touch it. It's mine. You're not allowed to touch it. That's part of the deal. It's mine and you can't touch it."

"Okay, okay."

She thinks I'm weird. I am weird.

I take the knife by the handle. I hide it behind my back.

"I want to cut you on the arm," I say.

Ramona goes pale, and then blushes. She crosses her arms under her breasts. Then she uncrosses her arms. She leans back on the couch, slowly squirming.

I indicate a place on my own left arm. "Here," I say. "Inside your arm. Just below the armpit. A long red cut. Slow. Not deep. You can hold your arm over your head. The blood will run down your arm. Down your side."

"Why?" she whispers. "Why do you want to cut me?"

"I just do. That's all. I have to cut someone."

"You're crazy," she says. But it comes out sounding different. It sounds more like she thinks I'm romantic.

"I just want to cut someone."

I can't explain it. I shrug. There is no explanation. It's something that has to happen. I want it to happen.

"Why me?" Ramona asks. "Why do you want to cut me?"

I tilt my head slightly. "Because you're someone who wants to be cut."

The questions are confusing me. Why is she making this so complicated?

Ramona looks sad. Maybe she's going to cry. A thought comes to me. Maybe she wants to be special. She doesn't like that I'll cut anyone who let's me.

Then she changes her mind. Apparently it's all okay, somehow. Maybe she likes that she could be anyone.

I don't understand her. I don't care. I just want to cut her.

"Should I take my shirt off?" she asks.

"Yes."

"I'm not wearing a bra," she warns.

"I don't care."

She takes off her shirt. She covers her breasts with her hands. Then she breathes deeply. Her hands move away. Her breasts are small, but okay. They're attractive enough.

"Maybe I should take off all my clothes," she says. The idea excites her.

I shrug. "If you want."

She stands up, pulls off her jeans. Underneath is a black thong. She takes it off too. Then she quickly sits down on the couch. She is naked. And slowly, it dawns on her she's naked.

"What am I doing here?" she mutters. She's confused, but happy. "Why am I doing this?"

I don't say anything. What can I say?

Slowly, Ramona lifts her left arm. Her hand is loose at the top. The fingers are splayed, dangling. Her face blushes red again. It's cute.

"I am so fucking horny right now," she says. She doesn't look at me. "Are you?"

"I'm not going to fuck you," I say. "I'm just going to cut you."

"Okay," she says. Maybe she's slightly disappointed. "That's fine."

Then she seems to change her mind. Maybe being cut is exciting enough.

I sit down on the couch next to her. I move, so I'm kneeling on the couch. I grab her left wrist in my left hand. I hold her wrist, tight, so she won't move. Ramona lets out a soft moan. I lift the knife up in my right hand. Where to cut? I position the knife. It feels like I'm about to play the cello. Her arm is my instrument. Ramona's breaths are shallow and quick. Her nipples are pink, erect. She smells clean. She must have showered, before coming over.

The knife glints. I hold it steady. I find the spot. And I draw it across her arm. I pull slowly, dragging one low sweet note from Ramona. The sound of it thrums and growls. It fills my apartment. It's like a moan from sex, but softer. It aches. It's the taking of a woman's virginity. It's bliss.

I move back, step away. I want to see.

"Keep your arm up," I say.

She does. The blood flows down, into her armpit. Then around her breast. Down to her waist. Not a lot of blood. Just enough.

Ramona looks different. It's the difference between a photograph and a person. She's suddenly here. Before, she was just a young woman. There were a million like her. Cut, she's alive. She's passionate. Her lips are fuller. Her eyes are small and hard and real. She's lost her craziness. Her body is tighter. No wonder she cuts herself. It makes her human. It makes her beautiful. Real. Present. Alive.

But it doesn't last. The moment passes. She lowers her arm. She puts her right hand over the cut. Her lips grow narrow. Her body plumps out again. She's pretty, now. She's not beautiful.

It hurts me, to see her go back again. Back to how she was. I feel crushing disappointment.

"Okay," I say. "You can go."

"What?"

She's an addict coming out of the fog of drugs. The high is gone, but she's not awake yet.

"You can go. We're done."

She blinks her big crazy eyes. I miss who she was. It hurts to look at her now.

"Done?" Ramona says.

She gets to her feet. She's pretty, naked. But it's not what I want.

Ramona pulls on her thong. She feels exposed, vulnerable. Her wound is still bleeding, a little. She's having a little trouble keeping her balance.

I'm tired of looking at her. I look at my knife instead. I hear her start to cry. It seems to go on forever. I hear her put on her jeans, zip them up. She gets a little control over herself.

"I'm still bleeding," she says. She wants help, sympathy.

There's a pause. I'm reluctant to help. I go find some gauze, a bandage wrap. I bring them back. I don't want to touch her. I give them to her.

She puts the gauze on the wound, wraps it. Then she puts on her t-shirt.

Ramona says, "I used to do this alone. Cut myself. It was weird, having you there."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"What?" she gasps. "Why?"

"We're done."

"What do you mean?"

"That's it. We're done."

"You asked me over. I came. I let you cut me."

"And we're done," I say, forceful. "It's finished."

I walk over to the door. Her coat and boots and scarf and mittens are there. She slowly comes over.

"That's it then?" she says.

I don't say anything.

She starts getting dressed. She's angry. But she's also sad. She feels used. But then, what did she expect? I see all of this in her movements.

"Fuck you," she says. "You're a sick fuck."

She slams the door as she leaves.

I stand there for a while. I look at the knife. It's all so disappointing. I had such high hopes. Instead, it was fleeting, meaningless.

I go into the kitchen. I find the box the knife came in. I put the knife inside the box.

"Worst Christmas present ever," I say to myself. "Thanks, mom. Thanks for nothing."

And I throw the knife in the trash.