There was once a night in my life where I wanted to cut the flesh from my bones and pull the veins from my body, then wrap them around my neck and choke until my own shit and piss spilled onto the floor and the police found the stinking remains. 

However once I held the blunt, rusty knife against my chest, aiming the first cut to disembowel, I realised this would not stop the mix of blood and seed sticking to my thighs. 

I had been a lonely child, my father often beating my mother and me, and I'm sure He picked up on that. He, who created the life of my only two children, He who followed me from the bar where I had worked once to smash my empty home to pieces and defile me. He had pinned me down, stamping on my chest twice to wind me, then wound his way between my legs to stick his diseased cock in my innocent body. I laid, defenseless, coughing up my lungs and blood, fireworks exploding in my beaten head. Another explosion occurred down there, and I felt as if I was being ripped in two. 

That sensation occurred again nine months later, and then I held the twins in my arms for the first time.