I felt a tiny bit of pain suddenly. But simply ignored it. The next thing I knew, I got curious of that tiny bit of pain, so I looked at it. And I found out that I was bleeding. I stared at my own blood. It fascinated me. The redness of it against my pale skin seemed beautiful. A few seconds after that pause, I washed it off with tap water. It didn’t sting. Later after that, I went and pour ethyl alcohol over it. I still didn’t felt the sting. I went to get a cup of tea and took a sip of it. And I grabbed the ethyl alcohol again and pour it to my wound. I didn’t stop until I felt a tiny bit of sting on it.
After which, I reflected on what I did. I couldn’t come up with a rational explanation to it, even if it’s just something made up that I would later on believe to be true. The only thing that I could accept was that I wouldn’t get satisfied playing with my would of touching it until I feel pain over it. Just like a typical child who wouldn’t stop running around until he gets himself wounded all over.