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Razor Blade

Posted on October 24, 2016 in Encounters Prose Arcana Suicide

Someone slipped into my truck and left a razor blade on the passenger seat.

I stared at it, contemplating what to do, until the hours of shock subsided into the moment that had actually passed.

It was an artist’s blade, with a long cover on one side to make it easy to cut without savaging your finger.

I did not want it there reminding me of that day when I texted my last will and testament to my wife before sitting on a log to study my veins.

This piece of steel sharpened to lacerate was a sick joke played on me by a stranger.

The gray rectangle was not a ghost.

I handed it off to a worker at the Wellness Center where I had parked my truck. He put it in a hidden place for disposal.

A classnmate once described pain as sliding down the edge of a long razor blade. That memory drew blood from the empty spaces between the neurons.

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