Eye of the Beholder

Deciding that like ripping a brush through tangled hair, quicker is better, I close my eyes and yank.  I feel almost nothing, barely a twitch of pain.  It’s like cutting myself shaving; I know it has happened but the sting is almost unnoticeable.  Something drips onto my chest, one drop, two, then three.  Opening my eyes, I look down and see blood on white cotton.  The mirror reveals that I’m bleeding worse than I thought I would.  Small trickles leak from the downward slant across my face, which is pale in comparison.

I grab a tissue and lay it gently against my cut.  A red stain spreads quickly, leaving only the corners pure.  After discarding the tissue, I set the blade up for another slice.  This time I cut slower, more precisely, lining it up perfectly with the last one.  It hurts a little more than the first time, but even though I watch as I carve, the pain still hardly registers.

After sopping the excess blood, I repeat the process twice more, then throw the blade in my little, wicker trash can.  It’s not that I’m getting carried away.  This is how I’ve planned it.  When I’m satisfied that all the evidence of what I’ve just done is gone, I grab Snowball from his perch on my window sill and head down to dinner.  He’s getting tuna tonight; he deserves it.  He’s about to take the blame for my new scratches.  I wonder if I can blame him for what I’ve got planned for Anna.

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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. :)