"Forgotten Razor"

By Kid In Converse

April 4, 2008

Run

Run. Run away. That’s what I want to do. I don’t care how far I go. As long as I won’t be here, in this classroom, with thirty of my classmates’ here to witness my china face shatter, if I crack

Mrs. Brown stands at the white board, scribbling down something I’m told is important.

I prepare to dash. I don’t want anyone turning their heads until I’m out of this room. I don’t want to see another pity glance. I don’t think that I can bare another one. Ever since Mom’s funeral for months ago, it seems like everyone’s been giving me one of those looks where their wide eyes focus on my face, their eyes trying to see if I’m as broken as my Mom was.

“One… two… three!” I call in my head, making the dash out of the classroom.

The hallway is empty; it’s only two weeks until finals and no student with half a brain would be skipping now.

I don’t know where I’m going to go. I don’t know anywhere I can go, that I won’t be found by the school administrators; my classroom exit wasn’t exactly the most convert and they’ll be looking for me. They’ll find me anywhere I go. I can’t drive off campus somewhere, and save the drama for a couple more hours; Dad took away my license when my report card came three weeks ago. I guess that five ‘A’s’ and a ‘B+’ weren’t good enough for him- just like everything else I do.

I suppose I could go to the downstairs girls’ room; it’s across campus from the office and I don’t think that it’s the first place anyone will look for me. Freshman year, I walked in on three senior girls with shiny silver blades crushing white powder on a CD. Before they even glanced at me in my jean miniskirt and pink tanktop, I was out of that bathroom. I never used it again. I saw enough of that at home from Mom.

I haven’t changed much since then, so there’s no reason why anyone would even consider looking for me there. It’s not exactly a secret that I don’t like that restroom and that I’m not druggie of any sort. Seriously, my fuchsia colored tank top and jean miniskirt have been replaced by a long sleeved garnet colored shirt and Sevens jeans, but I’m basically the same person I was three years ago.

I slowly push the bathroom door open, step in, and let it sway closed behind me. I walk past each stall, noting that every door is open. I am alone. And that creeps me out a bit. I haven’t been this alone since the first day of freshman year, when I walked in on those girls.

The bathroom doesn’t smell like it did then. It smells… cleaner. More like lemon bleach and less like sweet drugs. It’s kind of bad too, because I don’t think that I’m going to leave it very clean. I’m getting better with containing the drizzling blood, but I still haven’t perfected restraining it to the sink.

I put my pointer finger into the right pocket-inside-a-pocket on my pants. You know, that small one that they put on pants that is too small for anything, except earrings that you’re going to lose anyways? That one.

Though, fate must have had enough with me, because my razor fit snugly inside of that useless pocket.

I reach in to pull out my razor in a cardboard packet that it came in, but I find nothing except for piece of cardboard. The cardboard is colored with smudged, copper color fingerprints. Where is it? Did I forget to put it in my pocket this morning? That means…

I throw myself against the wall opposite the sinks and slowly slide down to the floor. My entire body is shakes, not knowing how to react to the emotional pain without physical pain to counteract it. I don’t know when the last time I didn’t have it with me.

My eyes are burning. I don’t remember the last time that I cried. I remember not crying when Mom died. I remember how Dad looked at me- like it was my fault Mom died.

I don’t know how long I let the salty tears glide down my cheeks. I don’t even care how long. Now that’s something I wouldn’t have said freshman year, or even four months ago.

I hear the air rushing in, as the door opens silently. I’ve been busted. But

“Sami…” A male says softly, sternly, with the first ounce of genuine concern I’ve heard in a voice since Mom died.

I look up. It’s Dad. My eyes drop their gaze, to see my razor pinched between two of his fingers. I’m caught.