Grace and I spent the night here, all of us crammed on Katie’s bed trying not to move, thinking the others were asleep. We often did this ritual of stillness, but by around two in the morning we all usually managed to drift off—except, this time, Katie hadn’t slept a wink. 

We’d been watching R-rated slashers. We were way too young to make into the theaters, so Katie always ripped them off the internet. We’d watch them in her room, the lights off, Grace usually wrapped in a blanket that she’d pull over her eyes if the violence became unbearable. Katie and I, though, we like the gore, the way the fake blood oozes out from actors’ wounds. Their acting was never convincing enough for us; Katie’s theory last night was that there must be some pleasure in pain, that there must be some enjoyment there when someone was cut open. 

“The actors all just jerk around and twitch and cry,” she complained.

I disagreed with Katie, something I barely dared to do, and I told her more than once that there was nothing pleasurable about a period, or about a papercut, or about stubbing my toe. 

“But isn’t there something fun about pressing a bruise?” she asked. “Or digging your fingernails into a mosquito bite?”

“Yeah,” I admitted, “but that doesn’t mean you’re right about everything.”

She wanted to test it. She wanted to prove me wrong. So she stayed up all night, thinking of ways to prove her theory, and by morning she managed to settle on something. She told Grace and I her plan as the sun rose through her sheer pink curtains, tinting the room red.

Katie’s making me carve her, but she said I had to use a dull knife. She’s worried her mom might notice if we used one of the good ones. 

I’m sitting with Katie in her bedroom now, shag rug beneath our shins where we’re kneeling, the cat-shaped lamp on her nightstand struggling to emit amber light against the dawn. Grace is licking her lips nervously every few seconds, the blue of her braces peeking through. She’s sitting on a desk chair—she finds the floor too uncomfortable.

Katie shifts, sits cross-legged, revealing her rug-burned knees pebbled with crumbs. She swipes them, sends the debris flying, landing again on the shag. “I’m bored,” she says, picking at the dirt beneath her fingernails. “When are we gonna start?

The knife lies between us on the rug, perpendicular, gleaming. Its handle is made of gray-brown, splintery wood, the kind that hurts just looking at it. Grace eyes it, transfixed by this weapon I would soon use. “You’re not nervous?” Grace asks, not turning from the knife. “Like, at all?” 

Katie flicks a dark glob of dirt out from her pinky. “Not really.”

“I just think we need to talk more about this,” Grace presses. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips. “Why can’t we just, I dunno, punch you or something?”

Katie rolls her eyes. “That’s so lame. Using a knife is way cooler, and plus, this isn’t just for fun. This is, like, scientific. I want it to really hurt.”

Grace was obviously uncomfortable. “Your mom’s home,” she said. “What if you scream?”

“I won’t scream.”

“Okay, but what if you do?” Grace’s eyes flick toward me, then back. “Katie, once she starts cutting you—”

Katie grabs Grace’s arm, pulls it toward her. Grace is forced out of the chair, slides to the floor in a heap. Her eyes meet Katie’s, their gazes locked. A bead of sweat drips down Grace’s temple as Katie brings her wrist, squeezed between her fingers, close to her face. 

Katie opens her small, pink mouth, so delicate and perfect, and brings her teeth down gently on Grace’s wrist. Grace’s eyes widen, and Katie starts biting a little harder. Grace squirms but doesn’t pull away. I just sit there and watch it happen; there’s no stopping Katie once she’s set on something. She takes her eyes away from Grace’s, looks at me, raises her eyebrows and does a little nod. I understand the cue: Katie’s found her gag. I need to start carving. 

I pick up the knife. The handle is cold but warms quickly in my palm, and my skin prickles against the splintery wood. I’ve never held a knife as big as this and it feels odd, misshapen somehow. I raise my eyes to Katie’s and something passes between us, but I don’t know what it is.

Katie’s legs are splayed out now, ahead of her, and she’s propped upright by one hand. The other hand is on Grace, keeping her in place. Grace’s eyes are darting from the knife in my hand to Katie’s abdomen, my target, but she doesn’t say a word.

As I approach, Katie leans, eases herself onto her back so she’s lying down. Grace comes with her, laying at her side, her arm extended so her wrist can stay in Katie’s mouth. I see a bead of saliva drip down it.

I lift Katie’s shirt up. She’s wearing an orange sports bra underneath, just to cover her nipples since she hasn’t really grown breasts yet. I trace the bra’s band with a finger and watch as Katie’s skin prickles with goosebumps.

Katie’s breathing is steady, but a little fast. She’s excited. I am too, in a way. She takes Grace’s wrist out of her mouth, just for a moment, and speaks. “Don’t hold back.”

“I won’t,” I reassure her. “I think I know what I’m going to do.”

I press the point of the knife into her belly button, and her stomach contracts at the cool blade’s touch. I don’t make an incision, not yet—I’m just teasing, testing. I pull the knife back and do the same thing again, bringing it back to her navel. Katie twitches but her stomach doesn’t contract. She’s ready.

The knife is almost too dull. It takes me a second to make any progress on Katie’s skin; I have to press pretty hard before I’m able to puncture it at all. I’m doing it slowly, gently. There’s a sharp intake of breath from Katie, and she holds it. Grace gasps but clasps her free hand over her mouth: Katie was biting down harder on her wrist. From where I’m positioned I can’t see what Katie looks like, if she’s agonized, if she’s ecstatic.

I start to draw across Katie’s abdomen. The cut’s not too deep but not too shallow, either. Blood pours out of it, the skin recoiling from the flood. I’m trying not to cut anywhere too crucial—I’m not really trying to hurt her—but I get a little carried away when I make the next cut and I can feel Katie’s body tense up. She’s so thin, so petite, she must be feeling each slice keenly. The blood is pulsing forward now, more blood than I’ve ever seen. But I’ve done it, the shape is complete, I’ve carved her in two long strokes. She now has a heart, seeping, throbbing, on her stomach.

Grace starts to cry. She rises; Katie’s let go of her wrist. I sit up, look at Katie’s face, and see that her eyes are closed. She’s unconscious. 

Above me, Grace is looking from her wrist to Katie’s new body. Her wrist is punctured, marks from Katie’s teeth embedded in her flesh and bleeding profusely, black-and-blue further down where Katie gripped it. She brings a hand to her mouth, gags, runs out of the room. After a second I hear her retching in the bathroom.

I watch as blood continues to pool under Katie’s body, spreading across the shag carpet, dyeing it crimson. I watch as Katie’s chest continues, weakly, to rise and fall.

Katie’s still out cold. I won’t know if her theory was right until after she wakes up. But there is something different here—something different in me. I feel like someone other than myself, or maybe I feel like someone who has been added to. I have become something strange. 

I bring the knife to my own wrist and make a small cut, horizontally, just to see if I can prove Katie’s theory myself. At this point, I want her to be right, I want this to have all been for something. I would feel wrong if she woke up from her slumber and said, actually, that just hurt. So I cut myself, and it stings, and I feel something seize in my gut, deep down in my intestines, because I didn’t get as much enjoyment out of the pain as I did when I inflicted it on Katie.

Katie may enjoy pain, may find some pleasure in it, but I do not. I find pleasure in something else, something more unusual, and I am not ready to let go of the feeling just yet. 

I drag my index finger along the cuts I made in Katie’s skin, my finger becoming slick with blood, buildup forming under my fingernail. I dig my finger in a little deeper, then insert my middle finger, too. I am feeling her insides and they are warm and they are alive. Katie is warm and she is alive. I am warm and I am alive. The blood is proof.

I move to position myself behind Katie. With a now-bloodied hand I take Katie’s head, lolling, into my lap. Her chestnut hair is long and straight. I bring my hands up, smooth her hair back behind her ears. There’s some blood on my fingers and it slicks her hair back satisfyingly, leaving a trace of crimson on her temples. 

With precision, with love, I start to braid Katie’s hair. I do a French braid—I’ve been practicing—so I can bring all the strands away from her face. I want her to wake and know that I cared about her while she was asleep, that she was right to trust me with slicing her up. I want her to know that even if she didn’t like this, even if she was wrong, I am here, and she is safe.