One drop. Two drop. Three drop. Stop...

She counts the trickle of blood oozing out of every wound with a deliberate intent that matches labour contractions.

Four drop. Five drop. Six drop. Stop...

Each drops at an interval of 23 seconds. The dark liquid isn't gushing like in those slasher films. She hates slasher flicks. She loves them. She abhors them. She adores them.... But she needs to think of the blood. She will make it good. Warm and simmering. It flows in its own sweet rhythm. Slow and nice, meandering through a three-inch long cut — it could be longer, deeper. It could have ensured more beautiful outflowing symphony in blood.

Seven drop. Eight drop. Nine drop. Stop...

Oh. But it seems like that first cut is healing. It's blocking the flow.
What is to be done? What is to be done?
Bring in another cut.
No, make the original one deeper.
But where is the knife? And what about the wounded?
Ah. Never mind the wounded. The first cut is always the deepest.
But this one isn't.
Okay. then the first one hurts the most.
How do we know it?
We ask the person!
So, does it hurt?
Let me have a go at it again. If I hit an artery this time, the answer to your question is in positive. Just make sure you put the arm in warm water. Not hot. Just warm and keep pumping the arm up and down.
But how to know for sure?
You will know for sure when I would have bled to death.