It's What You Do To Me

My dad stormed into my room and pushed the knife in my hand. "There you go. With permission and everything." I stared at him questioningly. He sighed and said: "Alright, let's see if this works, then," and with those words, he started to pull up the left sleeve of his blue smart-casual shirt. "Do it. Come one, do it. Or I'll do it myself," he threatened. I looked him in the eye and then to his bare left underarm, with his right hand still clasping the sleeve of the shirt at the heighth of the elbow, in order for it not to roll back down.
I felt the pocket knife gain more and more weight in my hand as seconds were ticking by and finally, I clicked the knife in its grip and as I wanted to lay it away, my father grasped it out of my hand. "No! You do it. Now. Or else I will," he threatened again. His sleeve had rolled down a bit, with the sudden movement and as my father saw that, his eyes widened. I stole the moment to hastily leave my room and go downstairs, where my mother was cooking dinner, but he was too quick.
"Sit-down-now," he hissed. I did.
"Open the clasp knife," he continued. I did.
"Now take a look at it, slowly. Take the time to look at how beautifully it shines. Except for those times you used the tip of it, it hasn't been used, has it? So just look at it. Look at how.. Clean it is." He spoke slowly now and seemed to stretch the word 'clean', but that might as well have been my imagination. It was as if he got me into some sort of trance, because when he said the following, I made a little jump on my bed.
"Give me the knife," he said harshly.

I turned the knife- I pointed the knife towards me and handed him the side with the grip. In the slow movement of handing him the pocket knife, the tip of it crossed right palm. It stung and I saw a drop of blood fall on my yellow skirt. My dad saw it too and he smiled, "Sharp, isn't it?"
Then he put the tip of the pocket knife to his left wrist and drew a hardly noticeable line from the left to the right. All you could see, was a thin, light red line, and only if you'd look closely you could see it. My eyes were wide as plates and my mouth was wide open.
My dad looked at me. "Hurts doesn't it?"
I noticed my eyes were wide and my mouths was open, stupidly. I didn't want to look affected by his trick, so I acted coolly: "Only if you want it to. Isn't that the point?"
He pulled up his left sleeve higher this time, till just above his elbow, and drew another line with the point of the knife. This time vertical. And deeper.
As a reaction, I gasped and held my hand in front of my mouth, that was open again. I looked at his eyes, that were focused on me, rather than on his arm, surprisingly enough. He kept looking me in the eye, but I couldn't look at him. I kept looking at his mouth, how it was twitching. I kept looking at the carve in his lower arm, how the blood sippled out of it.

"D-dad.." I muttered.
Within one movement of his hand, he closed the pocket knife and he threw it on my bed. He then rolled his sleeve down and wanted to walk away.
"D-d-dad..." I stuttered again. He fiercely turned around and started screaming.

"Did you like that? Did that ease your pain?! Did it make it easier for you? Are your problems gone now?"
"What.. What are you talking about..?" My voice was hardly audible for myself, I don't understand how he could've understood it.
"THIS. I am talking about THIS. Every single time you bring that knife to yourself, whatever part of your body, you bring it to me too. Every time you cut yourself, you cut me too." He held out his arm, showed how the blood was soaking the fabrics of his earlier blue shirt. He rolled it up, grabbed my hand and made me touch his wounds.
"YOU did this. YOU are the one that is not only causing yourself terrible pain and scars, but also us. Do you think we want to see you hurt yourself? Do you not think we are hurt by your pain?"

My fingers slowly followed the lines on his lower arm. My index finger felt as if it had been numb and was regaining its feel to it- it tingled. It hurt.
I looked up, in the light blue eyes of my father. He was ageing, but not yet old. His hair was gray, but not yet falling out. He was desperate, but not yet giving up.

A tear found its way down my cheek and somehow it fell on the bare skin, close to my dad's elbow. I sniffed and and followed the lines on his lower arm again, with a finger that was wet by the salty tear that had fallen down. He pulled away as a reflex to the stinging, but I held his hand with my free hand, so he wouldn't pull away entirely.
When I looked up, I saw my dad had tears in his eyes as well.. I said I was sorry. And he gave me the tightest hug ever. My chin rested in the hole between his right colar bone and his neck. I heard him sniff. And for the slightest of moments, I thought I heard him say he loved me.

"Your pain is our pain. You do not only do this to yourself; you're doing it to us. And it hurts, it really does." He held my shoulders and gave a little squeeze. "It's our pain too. We love you."
And with that, he walked away.