You move possessed. The pain of the dagger's burn keeps you sober enough to move. You anchor to it as you cut, severing meat and connective tissue and artificial nerves. There's a better way of doing this, you know, you've butchered meat before. The dagger is a crude tool for the job. But you don't care.

There's little time. Little sense. You move. Crack. Tear. Cut. Switch hands when the burning gets bad. Let the other hand heal. Twist. Crunch. Grip.

It feels like forever.

Time starts to slip. As slick as the sinew between your fingers.