You press down on the lever, straining for the sound you adore.
Sharp metal blades clamp down, and a strip of white breaks free. One more snip to go, you've been waiting for this. You slide the clipper a touch right; you squint as you adjust the blade's position; too far and you unearth new fleshy depths, too near and you’ll waste a snip. You take a deep breath and tuck your elbows closer to your ribs. Pull your head lower, closer. Your chest stops rising, the soft whooshing of air from your nostrils stop. Control is vital!
A little white sliver does a dainty somersault flip before falling into darkness. You see its little curlicue flip, but you must move on. You are on a mission, and the goal approaches. Victory will be yours, must be yours. None must survive this purge.
But the sounds you loathe are always loud and clear.
"Are you cutting your skin again? How long have you been at it?! It's all over the floor! Oh my god, your fingers are bleeding! Stop this, stop cutting now!"
Your eyes narrow, your nose scrunches at the condescension. What would they know, degenerates with finely manicured nails, gleaming mother-of-pearls on their fingertips? What do they know of jagged cuticles and hangnails, the irritation of unevenly cut edges? What do they know of the urge – no, the need to remove these eyesores the way only you can?
They know nothing.
You target the next hangnail, straining for the sound you adore.