The knife cuts into flesh, but it goes no further. He doesn't see the bottle until it's too late, and whatever he has to say next is swallowed by a wordless cry of agony as his eyes begin to burn on contact with the spray.

He would be screaming obscenities at this point, but that would just be pointless noise. Anything beyond the purely reflexive, the grunts of pain as he claws at his eyes and screws them shut, would simply serve as an alarm to anyone nearby.

He needs to get up. He needs to finish this. But he can't fucking see, and the knife has slipped from his grasp. Fuck. Fuck. Where is it.