"Autocannibalism" by Mika O.

 Three forks, now I just need to get the placement right. The small fish fork goes to the left of the dinner fork, and the dinner fork goes to the right of the small salad fork. All of this will go on the right of the plate and the knife arrangement will go on the left. Dear god, if I don’t set my knives the right way again I’ll die of shame; placement is everything.

It’s beautiful: the table, the plating, the way the knives add the slightest bit of danger to the scene, everything. Should I open the window blinds for a soft, natural lighting? Or should I bring the studio lights in and dark out the rest of the room for a harsh, dramatic effect? A delicate, window lighting would be more artistic but studio lights would be blunt, I choose the latter: a dramatic setting for a bold statement, I love it.

Six o’clock, right on the dot. The Opioid should be in full effect right now, but I’ll check before I begin, as planned. A small slice between my fingers will do it. And… nothing, I feel nothing. What can I expect from the dosage I took anyways, it should’ve been enough to kill me. Though I’d like to say that there’s now a pinching feeling between my ring and middle finger, it’s probably just all in my head. Maybe I should have taken a cue from “The Survivor Type” and used cocaine instead, I laugh at this idea.

I can finally begin. A new film roll is loaded into the camera and set down on the granite countertop next to an empty wine glass and a tray of ice. My fingers glide down an arrangement of knives that aren’t photo worthy, feeling the steel of each santoku blade before I find the one I had sharpened the night before. Deep breaths, I can feel my heart pounding despite my complete self-assurance in this decision. I sit in the chair placed in front of my counter and rub my hand up and down the top of my thigh, feeling exactly what needs to be removed to avoid blood loss too quickly. I grab the knife and hold it an angle mid thigh, my grip is firm. One piece is all I need. I take one last moment to envision exactly how I want the slab to be plated, red meat up, next to a wine glass of crimson fluid; the color will show up tastefully on camera. I’m ready. I watch as if someone else’s hand pushes down on the blade, and as it begins to force it’s way under my skin I hope to myself that it will taste as good as it’s going to look.