Well, another one of my depressing yet true in the way of reality stories. Hopefully, people don't take this as an offense...this is just kind of how I have been feeling these past few days... Well, R&R, Feedback is my lover...

Godchild

A Delicious Moment…

There is nothing worse than a dull razor blade when you just want to surrender and press the cool metal to your skin. Feel the delicious warmth sever your nerves, and cope with the ebb of tide running down your fingers. And when, if possible—because that once sharp razor blade is now dull—you cut so deep that the crimson forgiveness doesn’t stop, what will you do? Will you defy the warnings and cut deeper? Almost to the bone, where the dark red crevice in your arm caves in so deep, it refuses to stop running? What if the drops of blood and pains were always present, and never left you alone? Never fading away…now wouldn’t that be just a luscious moment in time? To see all of the screaming and wailing be blocked and fought away with a continuous river of red…

But is this even possible? With a dull blade that refuses to forgive the needy? It’s like God is mocking you, teasing you, Ha-Ha! Nobody will forgive you, not even this thin sliver of metal! So after a few desperate uses, God flicks the magic wand and now that one solid piece, proof of forgiveness is blunt, refusing stubbornly to do its job. If you are lucky and God spares a few pleasures for you, it might provide you with a few specks of blood. But that, is merely teasing, a taunting of the skin. Pain barely piercing the Gray…

And you plead, because this dark color of Gray is suffocating every breath of air you try and filter in. You just want out, to be free and wander, in the freshness of it all. Just to be handed one more chance…one more swipe? You ask, now on hands and knees, you beg, and grovel, for one cleaner, purer cut. No more blunt attempts this time, you want the real and clear thing. And so God, having grown tired of your constant pleading, practically spoon feeds you this delectable privilege. Then you smile widely; a twisted and contorted view of plain happiness. The new, shiny improved blade nestled comfortably at home in between your thumb and index finger. And a precious, succulent moment comes along, humming a tune while happily skipping down the path of crimson stream. So why don't you do it, embrace the warmth, the scarlet rush that comes before the actual deed, and dive into the pool; make it a little better, a little bigger. It’s hard to stop, because the Gray flies in so fast, you barely have any time to devour this tasty impulse.

So the temptation takes over, and you grin, your skin pulsating dangerously. But who really gives an effing A about this precious moment? They wouldn’t understand… This is the only way to get rid of and trash the Gray. And you cradle your wrist for lengthy minutes ticking their way around your clock; savoring the rich distinct flavor of your own twisted version of a sedative. Finally, the new and improved razor is tucked secretively away, hidden in a place only your twisted and mangled mind could possibly think of.

Now it is time to slip on the mask, complete with dripping rainbow happiness and plastic smiles. Put on the emo/punk gloves, covering up anything. And it is hard to cover it up, because though it hurts, it is the only calm you can manage to find amidst the turbulence. But you have to wait, because nobody but you and the shiny blade understand what true forgiveness is. True forgiveness means pain, heaps of it. And you don’t even halt and think about stopping. Not even if the ending result is death, so strong is your desire to be forgiven and yet rejected at the same time. So the medication is choked down, but is doesn’t ever seem to hoard off the Gray for more than a few sobbing minutes.

So I dare you, take out the blade…slip your black mask and eye deceiving gloves off, and dare to cut a little deeper, dare to not stem the tide. Instead, watch it all emerge from the fault in your skin, and spill onto a red splattered canvas all over your mothers white carpet. Stain it the color of hurt; proof that the Gray color had been liquefied for a few unspoken moments.

And then, when your, poor unsuspecting mother actually walks into the dead silence room. What a nice surprise it will be, to see you, lying dead on the floor, razor blade not having strayed too far from your hand. Your crimson blood having drained from your skin into the once white spotless carpet, now stained a musky blush.

It would be an excitement, just to see her scream at your limp body and the steadily fading pulse, the red blood slipping down your pale lifeless skin.

Just to experience that moment….

Wouldn’t it just taste delicious?

Kristina E. Anderson