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.