Untitled (476 words) - Writers Forum

Bleys · 10-22-2006, 02:40 PM

This is a very short story. It's not even really a story so much as just a self-contained scene. It's one of my favorite things that I have written in the past few years, and since I am new here I figured I'd use it as a means of introduction. It has no title. The characters have no names. Enjoy.

----

One. Two quick strokes and it’s done. This is my therapy; this is what gets me through the night. I glance over my earlier work and determine that I’ve improved. My lines are straighter, my angles more precise, cleaner, darker, deeper. I watch as a rivulet of crimson blood runs down my leg and I realize I’m fast running out of canvas.

I take a deep breath. It’s 6:15 in the morning—almost sun-up. Upstairs people are still awake, and that’s what bothers me. I can hear their heavy breathing. That’s my fucking futon, you know. But right here, right now, it’s only me and my razor blade. One, two quick strokes and it’s done. This is release like you’ve never felt. This is real. The pain is real, the blood is real, I can feel this. And I hold on, as tight and as long as I can, because I know in a few hours I’ll feel even worse. But before the regret sets in, I’m going to enjoy the reprieve and take another stab.

It’s not like I’m a “self-mutilator,” I don’t do this out of habit. Don’t try to force your psychobabble titles on me. I do this because it feels good, I do it because when I’m holding that blade, I’m in charge. I do it because—well, I guess I do it because of her.

Thump, thump, thump.

It’s just one, two quick strokes and god I hope they stop soon. I can see one, two quickly snowballing into hundreds. Legs, arms, torso, it’s all just blank paper for me to write my memoirs on. The story of my life one slice at a time.

Don’t get me wrong, though, this isn’t a cry for help. I hardly ever tell anyone about my razor blade escapades; this is all strictly for me. Whatever anyone tells you, bullshit psychiatrist or brainwashed patient, this is about control. It’s all about feeling something real. Someone once asked me if I looked at it as a punishment. If anything, it’s a reward for a job well done. I did my part beautifully; I can’t hold myself responsible for her shortcomings, right?

My leg is a bloody mess, my sock is soaked. There’s a little red oval where blood has seeped through my jeans. And upstairs the futon is jerking across the floor.

One, two quick strokes and I’m worried about getting blood on my nice, clean razor blade. The blood is slow to come and for a second I wonder if maybe I’ve cut my leg dry. It’s seventy degrees in my bedroom but I still feel ice cold.

Uh—uh—uh—ohhhh.

I swear, my blood is freezing on my leg. It’s coming out of my veins already frozen. One, two quick strokes and I think to myself maybe I should get a gun.

FinalsTwin · 10-22-2006, 03:55 PM

Hey that was really good. How long did you spend doing that? I know it usually takes me at least 10 minutes to do something like that but i don't know that seems re.ally good

gohn67 · 10-22-2006, 06:33 PM

hey Bleys,
I had no problem reading through this. I like the voice of the character, both creepy and intelligent at the same time.

I like how the narrator gets into the reasons why he does this, right or not. Maybe he's lying especially at the end, though I kind of wanted to know more specific instances, like who is the "her" he refers to.

The "one, two quick strokes" repetition always kind of pulled me out of the piece because I kept thinking about "Take me out to the ball game". But that's minor and did not deter me too much.

For a self contained scene it is hard to critique. But I can say that I it well written and did not make me cringe because it was about suicidal narrator who likes to cut himself. That sometimes has a tendency to border on cliche.

I liked it.

Spaztikfingers · 10-26-2006, 01:23 AM

Bleys,

Nice little piece. I agree with gohn how the narrator is creepy, intelligent and enjoyable to read. I know you said this is a self contained scene but you've given it potential to be so much more because of all the questions that arrive from it. The narrator says the cutting is done as a reward. Well, with the creepiness he invokes one has to wonder just what was the job that was rewarded? People know about his cutting. He has done it in the past but he has never died from it. Does he need to die now? Why do people know about his cutting?
I only say this because you say it's a favorite piece and the narrator is quite a delicious character.

Thanks for the read,
Spaz