Power of the Blade

I drive to the craft store at noon. Just an average art student, getting supplies on my lunch break. At least, that’s the look I try to pull off. I should be doing homework. Instead, I’m in the middle of a store, asking the clerk where to get carving tools. It seemed far more legitimate to get the blades here than at some drug store. Less suspicious.

I find what I need and bring it to the front along with a sketch pad and some yarn. One of these things is not like the other. The girl doesn’t even bat an eye at my purchase. Her look says she is having a bad day. Join the club.

I get back to my dorm. Roommates are gone. Good.

I cut open the package with scissors. I take out each one of the razor blades. I never expected them to be so beautiful, yet menacing. I have never done any of this before, and I could feel the power. I can feel the sharpness of the metal without even having to touch it.

I walk into the bathroom. Check to make sure all the supplies are still here. Disinfectant. Bandages. I’m ready.

I hold my arm over the sink. I put the blade against my skin. I imagine the rush of pain sweeping away all the thunder clouds that dump monsoons on me daily, threatening to drown me. No matter what, they keep coming back. I am running out of options, and this is something I’ve thought about for a while.

Standing there, with the blade to my skin, though, I can’t do it.

There must be another way, I think.

I pull the blade away. I grab the case the razors came in, put them all back, and put away my supplies. I look at the razors, their power still tempting. No. I take the case, slip it in my back pocket and elect to keep it there. A reminder that they are strong, but I am stronger.