Cut Novel Novels & Stories

He knows what he’s doing and we’ll have the information we need faster if I just let him work. Alex pulls a knife from its sheath and the man screams louder behind the tape, though it’s more like a squeal now. His mangled legs won’t hold him up and he’s hanging by his arms, his eyes wide and fearful. Alex reaches up, brings the knife down and slices off his ear, which he tosses to the cement floor. The guy squirms on the hook and Alex starts using the knife to cut off his clothes. Small slices well with blood as Alex removes each piece with precise dexterity.

If it really was a boss, then I’ll die again but with better preparation next time. I took out the kitchen knife which I fastened around the back of my waist. Then, I stabbed the coccoon starting from above—some thick transparent liquid splattered out from the cut for a bit. I started pulling the knife down, making a huge cut horizontally across the coccoon. Cutting a 7 feet coccoon took a long time even though my height was less than a feet away from it myself. After some more cutting and a lot of gruesome liquid splattering about, I managed to cut it open. Suddenly, the thing inside the coccoon moved towards the cut I made, and upon closer look, it doesn’t look like an object.

"Don't contact me anymore, Hubert. You're right. Your family wanted you to stay in Jethroville, so just stay put there. "As for my parents, since they think I have a bright future ahead, they can go ahead and keep thinking that. "I don't need parents, and I don't need that so-called family. From the moment I sold the apartment, Kathleen Holloway became an orphan. "Don't text me again." I tapped the send button, then blocked that number and powered off my phone. The sunlight outside the window was just right, filtering through the leaves and scattering patches of light across the room. I opened the textbook on my desk and turned my attention to it.

"It's okay. I'm here now." Swiftly, I jumped up from the bed and snatched a knife amongst the numerous cutleries on the trolley. "Laurel! Don't....." Before he could finish, I lifted my shirt up and ran the knife through, just below my left breast. Kurt rushed to my side and snatched the knife from my hold, just as I crumbled to the floor. "What on Earth were you thinking?! Austin! I need first aid. Now!" Blood was flowing down now but I didn't care. I cried out in pain when I ran my fingers through the bloody part and slipped a nail in the cut, tugging out the camera from beneath.

He casually tossed my long, thick locks into the trash. I stood there frozen for a moment, then hurried over to pick up the pieces of my hair. Tears streamed down my face. At that moment, I made a decision—I was going to leave Caleb. … I went to a barber shop and had my head shaved clean. While I was at it, I took advantage of a hotel's discount package. When I returned to pack my things, Caleb walked in, looking completely exhausted. The moment he saw the suitcase in my hand, his expression darkened. He stormed over and kicked the suitcase out of the way.

If you just get that box with your cutting utensils. I'm not cutting again. 'Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut, cut...' I'm not cutting. 'Of course not, you're you're coward!' I don't wanna live anymore.

Ethan’s POV Cutting — using a sharp object to cut your own skin on purpose until it bleeds — is a form of self-injury. People sometimes self-injure by burning their skin with the lit end of a cigarette, a lighter, or a match. Some people turn to this behaviour when they have problems or painful feelings and haven't found another way to cope or get relief. Most of the time, people who cut themselves don't talk about it or let others know they’re doing it. But sometimes they confide in a friend. Sometimes a friend might find out in another way.

She positioned the blade at the top of the marked line. For a heartbeat, she hovered. Then she cut. The skin parted under the steel in a clean, steady line from just below the clavicles down toward the sternum. Blood welled, dark and contained. The cautery hissed as she moved to the deeper layers, smoke curling up in faint, acrid wisps. “Retraction,” she said. “Let’s see what our favorite wolf has been hiding.” Ribs spread under metal hands, opening like the pages of a book that had stayed closed too long.

Maybe she had. “Hold still,” Ambrose said, snipping the scissors in the air with a little sneer. “I’d hate to slip.” He caught the neckline between two fingers and cut. The shears went in clean, slicing a long diagonal line from my collarbone down toward my ribs, opening the fabric wider than it had ever been meant to go. Cold air hit my skin and I made myself not flinch, refusing to give either of them the satisfaction. He cut again at the hem, slitting the skirt up past my knee, then stepped back to look at what he’d done.

In my life, I had always restrained myself, no matter how angry I was. I staunchly believed that inflicting pain on others was an unforgivable act. Yet, in a moment that felt both eternal and fleeting, I found myself betraying my own principles. For the first time, I plunged a short, 20 cm military knife into Scarlet's abdomen. The blade slid effortlessly, fully embedding itself, as blood began to seep, staining her naked skin and the white bed sheet beneath.