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Just a needle, a blow torch, and thou...

First off, I was the definition of idiotic amateur, which makes it rather amazing that I didn't mess up. I would not recommend this if you are indeed at home on your bed by yourself, unless you really really want to...

I am a masochist, one who enjoys inflicting pain on themselves, or having other do it for them, which adds to the causation of this mod. I had performed self-injury many times before, though never in any sort of pattern except for the standard parallel lines running up the river, and it had never occurred to me that these scars I sought such beauty in could be put to any sort of artistic use. That one night, in my boredom and desire for pain, I came to a pleasant revelation.

A few years before, I had received a short-but-deep gash horizontally along my bicep. In an effort to staunch the bleeding that would stop in no other way, I heated a small pocket knife with a blow-torch like lighter and slid it along the veins, cauterizing the raw sides of the wound enough to seal the skin together without blood spurting onto my black carpet. One day, sitting on my bed with a book in my hand, I glanced at the scar made by this. It seemed more prominent than any of my other scars, somehow it was more emphasized than any other scar there. I had a clone of the torch-lighter on my bedside for no reason other than the fact that I was a pyro, and the needle that I was sewing up a rip in a shirt I had sitting near it. I had an idea.

I needed an area large enough to perform this mimicry on, but discreet enough to be able to hide without making it look like I was hiding something. My abdomen was the very first thing that came to mind. I pulled my shirt off, running a hand over the hairless skin of my stomach, I had shaved it all off for a musical I had been in the year before, and repeated this shaving because I enjoyed the sensation. This was fortunate for me, the shaved skin kept the needle from leaking out the scent of burning hair up through the bathroom floor only two feet above my self-modification rite. For some reason, burning flesh didn't travel as far as burning hair, and could always be covered up by saying I was eating a piece of cooked meat in my room. My parents didn't seem to question it when I gave simple answers, though they would have been very disappointed in me had they known what I was doing to myself in the secret recesses of my room.

I picked up the needle and the lighter, flicked the flame into being, and made the point white-hot.

I dropped the needle, because it was freaking hot. Cursing to myself quite loudly and licking the blister raising out on my pointer finger, I picked up the quickly-cooling needle and a Leatherman utility blade I had, and placed the needle in the pliers. I tried again. This time, I got the needle to my skin. I made five dots in the pattern of a pentagon with the intention of a pentagram.

The burning made the most exquisite pain I could ever imagine, cold at first, then roaring to life as my singed nerve endings cried out for mercy. I gave none, but instead upped my torture another couple notches. The process took about 20 minutes of re-heating the needle to the color of cannoli cream and smelling the flesh clinging to the needle burn to a crispy black, then playing connect the dots in lines of crinkling, cringing flesh and the scent of burning meat, making the sign of the sacred feminine, what else for someone re-attempting to gain favor of the goddess?

Immediately when I was finished, I went for the ultimate torture: rubbing alcohol. I splashed it generously on my abdomen, and fell to my knees as the glorious pain ricocheted off my thorax. I felt my eyes water and myself get sexually excited, but it wasn't time for that. The pain subsided as quickly as it had come, like a wave on a stormy day, sucked away into the frothing sea of sensations. The subdermal flesh was reddened and irritated, and the wound burned far into the night and through the next few days. This pain giving a new thirst to my masochism, I repeated this over the burns again and again many times since then, relishing it equally upon each instance.

Since then I've done it over, and done others with more skill and accuracy, but this amateur cauterization made me proud of myself. It doesn't kill you, but it isn't for the faint of mind or of body. The instinct to pull the needle back before you contact, or to put the needle away before you can even make contact with your skin is great in the standard human's psyche. Try it yourself, or don't, but be careful. Once you start, stopping is extraordinarily difficult, I have experience to prove this.


submitted by: Anonymous
on: 24 Oct. 2005
in Scarification

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Artist: Myself
Studio: My+Bed
Location: Porter%2C+ME+%28My+House%29

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