Eye of the Beholder

 

“Eva, are you okay?  You’ve been up here for hours.”  My mother calls through my bedroom door as she knocks again, cutting through my fantasy to bring me back to the present.

“I’m fine, Mama,” I try to sound every bit the bored teenager, but inside I’m cringing.  If my mother had any idea what I’m doing in here, she would tear through the door like a sheet of paper, leaving shreds of splintered wood in her wake.

“Dinner will be ready soon.”  She seems diffident; there’s more she wants to say, but she doesn’t.  I wait for the sound of her soft padding down the hallway, picturing her dainty feet squishing into the tan carpet.  When I am certain she is gone, I move to stand in front of the mirror that hangs on the wall above my dresser.

My skin is creamy and soft.  I brush my fingertip over one cheekbone and down to trace the ridge of my chin.  While I put very little emphasis on physical beauty, I must admit I’m a bit disappointed that circumstances have led to this.  It’s not fair.  I mind my own business, don’t bother anyone and certainly don’t let myself become envious of anyone else.  Yet, I’m the one about to suffer.  It’s the only way.

I place the sharp side of the razorblade against my cheek.  It feels cool against my skin.  Tipping it, I press the point of the corner into my flesh and hesitate.  I wonder how much it’s going to hurt.





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)