He slowly took the knife out. He had to do it. The man who couldn't even
remember his own name... he sharpened it, and braced himself for the pain he
knew would come soon... but it was the only way to stop... seeing them. He saw
them everywhere, as they walked through the streets, but he wouldn't see
them walking... he would see them doing terrible things to
themselves... sometimes cutting, sometimes taking pills, sometimes drinking
until they were angry and bitter and beating their families... he'd see them
everywhere and he'd see them all.
Now he was cutting, like all the people he had seen, but not to hurt
himself, to free himself, from having to wander aimlessly through the
streets, every day, seeing how they did terrible things to their bodies and
minds. He slowly brought the knife to his face. The man who couldn't
remember his name wanted to close his eyes, but he forced the blade to his
face, and with a trembling hand, he plunged the knife into his eye,
shrieking in pain as he gouged the wet orb out. Blood and tears fell from
the empty socket, and as he gasped for air and cried out, he brought the
knife to his remaining eye, and forced the blade into the socket, and took
out the other eye as well, crying out again, falling face first into the
pavement.
Moments later, he forced himself up, and tore a long strip of his sleeve
from his shirt, and tied it around the bleeding sockets, and groped his way
out of the alley... he was blind now, but in some ways darkness was
preferable to the searing pain of sight...
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