His left hand (Left, of course, there was no choice) picked up the first knife by the handle. His right hand closed tightly around the blade, sliding up and down its shaft. Blood first dribbled, then spurted through his fingers and down his arm.
His thigh received the first incision, the blade deeply penetrating the flesh, DeStiy relishing the agony that glorified existence. The second knife he licked - sensuously, slowly - his tongue gushing crimson as it cleaved in two.
Tears of pain and joy rivered his face as he kissed the bright blade before pushing it deep into his stomach.