The Razor

The sting of the razor as it seared through my skin was all I could think about. It came down again and again, slashing my skin, cutting. I felt my blood seeping from the wound, dripping to the floor. I screamed with each blow, the pain unbearable. Yet it did not stop.

I watched helplessly as the pale white hand that held the razor brought it down, over and over. Finally it stopped. I felt my body stinging, blood pouring from each wound. It pooled through my jeans, staining them a garish red. I felt tired, sick. My stomach threatened to heave its contents.

I saw the arm move again, the razor flash in the light of the naked bulb. I winced, balling up my eyes. I couldn't watch anymore. I gritted my teeth ready for the pain that could come, but it didn't. Instead I heard my friend grunting in pain. He was going for her. I forced my eyelids open and watched as the razor came down on her as it had me. I saw blood flowing frow the vicious wounds he created in a frenzy. She glanced at me, her eyes brimming with tears, her face twisted in agony. Her tears began to overflow, harsh, uncontrolled sobs breaking from her mouth into the room, falling silent in the dead air.

After a few minutes it was finished. He set the razor down on the table and walked from the room. I glanced at my friend, saw her pale, tear stained face. Her cuts were still seeping blood, dripping to the floor in spots that connected in a bizarre red map on the grey concrete floor.