Observing is harmless as long as it isn’t accompanied by deep thought. Other people walk by me, ignorant of my eyes straying curiously to their faces. I notice the varying impressions each on leaves on me and wonder what I look like to them. At home, I stand in front of the mirror and study my own countenance much more carefully than even a girl applying make-up would, so as to see behind it. My brows appear to bear an expression that is a mix of gravity and attentiveness. My eyes are clear and deep, differently hued pigments of color pieced together like a hazel mosaic; the tiles shift inwards and outwards as one when my pupils dilate. I have a sudden whim to scrutinize Trystain’s crystalline blue eyes, but then shake my head roughly to disperse the thought. It’s those vampire novels… They’re reshaping my tastes.
Brushing back my light brown hair, I resume my inspection of my face. The corners of my mouth naturally angle upwards ever so slightly, to my grim amusement. Part of me is laughing at how cheerful I act in stark contrast to my inner thoughts.
I really am cheerful, another part of me argues. Just not when I’m alone with my musings.
I stare distastefully at the lie my constant smiles have left on my lips, a long-buried impulse suddenly welling up in my heart. Padding quietly but purposefully to my bureau drawers, I open the top one and push aside a bunch of socks to extract a gray, metal object. I depress a button on the side with my thumb and slide it slowly upwards. My pulse is increasing and my hazel mosaics shift with fascination as the outside sunlight reflects dimly from the blade emerging from its container. A small click sounds as it reaches its full length, and for a while I simply stare at it. As I sit down cross-legged on the carpet, I turn it calmly in my hands, studying the slight slope where the metal becomes a blade, the flurry of tiny scratches that cover its worn surface and dull the shine of it.
My heart starts to race as I think about what the razor can do. I’ve heard stories about cutters, and know which ones were truly suicidal—“across the bridge” is just for attention; “down the road” is dead serious. The thought of how the knives cut through skin and bit open veins inspires a shiver. But the visualization of blood trickling from the wounds and dying marble floors, slowly spreading, makes a disturbingly pleasant chill run down my spine.
A tingle shoots through my wrist as I carefully place the blade lightly on the skin, perpendicular to my radial artery. My pulse is positively rushing now, and my breathing is coming in quick, shallow gusts. More thoughts of blood and the pain that would occur should the steel sink inside. My eyes are growing watery with my body’s fear of hurting and of death, although I know (You mean you’re pretty sure, ingrate) that one cut across won’t kill me. My skin is positively crawling now, and I take a deep breath and close my eyes to focus on my inner voices.
They come in a rush—or already were—and are jumbled but intelligible; I know what they are saying even though they all speak—or scream—at once.
Draw it across your wrist, see the blood—
No, no, no! Don’t make it hurt, don’t—
It takes more courage to suffer than to die…—Dying takes courage too, especially when there’s nothing to die for—
Pain is nothing, cut, cut—
Stop it!—
BLOOD—
Why do you need this artificial high on fear?—
Why don’t you try “down the road,” coward?—
Stop—
The pain of death is all we live for—
Breathe, calm down, and will yourself to do it—
Your friends need the smiling you, not the one who pushes herself into terror—
You’re convincing yourself that you’re worth more than you are, ingrate.
BLOOD—
Take control of your body. Move the razor.
Just do it.
Just see if you can.
Take the gamble.
I open my eyes and set my jaw, tightening my grip on the handle. Swallowing and trying to steady my breath, I push the signal from my brain to the stiff muscles in my arm and wrist. Eyes fixed, eager yet horrified and expecting blood, my bicep finally accepts the risk and flexes, oh so gradually, and the blade slides across my wrist.
The skin remains intact.
I let out a loud, shaky whoosh of air and lay the razor off to the side so that I can lean backwards and sprawl with a dull thump on the floor. No words come to mind except for relief; the blade was too dull from age to make a cut. My heart is still thumping, and my lungs are still absorbing and expelling air, each breath split into two or three more from my trembling. A few tears roll freely from the sides of my eyes, the trails reminiscent of the eyeliner I’ve seen on Egyptian royalty in those ancient paintings at the museums.
I turn my head to gaze reflectively at the razor lying next to me, abandoned. How close, I wonder, have I been to death, and how many times? Strange how the mummies in the museums don’t even faze me, or the jars in which their organs are kept. I nearly laugh aloud at the question of why the people wanted to dissect their nobles when they died. Somber again, I reach out and retract the blade of the razor, fingering it idly. The knife is death indeed, in the wrong hands. But death is fickle and varying—sometimes it will kill the person in front of the blade, and sometimes the blade is turned on its holder. But death…
How close to death… I wonder…
The closest encounters with the grim harvester are unceasing still. He stands behind one person always, and yet I do not shy away. Why is that?
Because of the stupid vampire novels.
Trystain is, without a doubt, the embodiment of death in my world. I remember clearly how eerie it felt to press a hand to his chest and feel no heartbeat. I asked him if it hurt. He said only when it stopped beating.
That, I remember, was the time I asked what it felt like to die.
And it was only for a moment, but that was also the only time I ever saw the laughter in his eyes disappear.
