In our kitchen downstairs, there’s a drawer. It’s painted white, perfectly white, like all of the rest near it.

The handle is shiny, and it reflects the dull light from the ceiling on the edges of the perfectly curved metal.

I curl my fingers under this handle, and pull at it. It opens without a sound, the perfect smoothness of a good drawer.

Inside that drawer is a collection of shiny, sharp knives, that are perfectly assorted in a pattern, smallest to largest.

I lift one, one that is rather large and isn’t serrated, out of the group. I hold it up to the light, staring at all of the perfect little lines in the metal, I don’t know what from.

I raise the knife to one hand, up to my pointer finger, and pull it across, not hard, but lightly. Perfectly sliced, as gentle as I could.

A perfect little sphere of blood forms at the tip of my finger, distorting as it slips down to my hand.

This wouldn’t leave a scar; it would leave my hand perfect, unharmed.

I was perfectly innocent.