Daily Intervals

If

If life is a movie it will be sad and happy at the same time. If everyday life is a love song it will be harsh and sappy. If life bumps are a stranger it will be blurry and memorable. If life deadline is a project it will be horrendous and exciting. If my next life's chapter will be in any of these then it's adrenaline rush.

But life is not a movie yet it was still sad and happy. But everyday life is not a love song yet it was still harsh and sappy. But life bumps are not strangers yet they were still memorable and blurry. But life deadline is not a project yet it was still horrendous and exciting. But if my next life's chapter will be in any of these then it's not the adrenaline that will rush but my blood.

"Oh, dear." I said to myself, as I look at her in the mirror. Yet in spite of the blood gushing out of the pulse, down my neck, I am still alive and smiling.

"Amazing." I commented about myself, who in fact was still able to stand up straight despite the blood rushing out of my veins.

Around me were square white tiles, they are the ceiling, the wall and even the floor. Beside me, in the right side there is a tub. Not far away from where I was standing, in my left side there's the bowl. In front of me is a rectangular mirror, a few misty dirt around it like a vignette and a few dots like grain in the middle. Below it is a sink, in it's left side is a soap, in the main sink is a blood and razor blade.

'Blood and razor.' I thought.

Everything is a blur again, less the dark vignette as I look straight in my brown eyes. They are brown when a light hit it and they are black when my surroundings and the world is dark. There's no emotion in it, no spark, no shine, no life. Then in a matter of seconds I spoke.

"Who are you?" I asked.

I saw her eyebrows arched up with the skin, forming a light seawave like. I looked around her. Her hair is black and is a mess, some of the locks were seeming tangled, almost looking like a bird nest, but they were scattered as if a lightning struck its head. Her forehead eased, but a wrinkle creased and few of the lines is easy to be seen. Her eyebrows were like a doodle, but not really chaotic just not trimmed. Below her eyes is a dark half circle and eyebags. Her straight nose has black spots. Her cheeks were dull and full of blemishes. Her cupid arrow like lips were dry and chapped. Down her jaw, on the left side were blood rushing out of the two inches line made by razor, it flowed like the falls. Down to her torso, inside her extra large white button up shirt. It was starting to soak the shirt, forming an abstract like painting.

I looked back at my eyes, "Oh, I know you. You are me." A smile crept up on my lips, a meager lustre of life shone in my eyes.

"I like your shirt." I said pertaining to my blood soaked shirt.

"I like the style. Do you know why is it designed like that?" I inquire, looking straight into my eyes. A stranger in front of me smiled.

'Blood and razor.' A voice echoed inside my head.

"Blood and razor? That's great, wow!" I said smiling. Her eyes still sparkling as she look back at me.

'Than—' my thought was interrupted by a sudden woosh and swing of the door at the end of my left side. I didn't look at who in the world is the human being who dared to open the door of the restroom being used.

A gasp and a voice sounded,
"Oh dear God almighty!"

'Hey, are you okay?' I asked myself. I just smiled at the mirror.

But in a blink of an eye I lost the sight of my own reflection, to someone blurry and has no impact.

"Why did you do this?!" A hand held my face

"Call an ambulance!" A voice followed.

"Oh good god." A whisper commented, its presence beside me, its hands trying to put me together in its arms.

A prelude of a boy's angelic voice echoed and in a matter of seconds, a g-string sound of violin followed, and in a matter of second the concerto started. It was harmonious, heavenly, and utterly compelling. The overall impact caused me to sway my head with my beating heart. My heart beats were as fast as the orchestra's sound but as soon as the climax were reached, the concerto becomes a cacophony to my head and my soul. It's when I felt grips on my hands and my body being carried by arms, when my heart beats were getting slower as the adrenaline of the sound was still skyrocketing.

"What have you done, Sloane?" A frustrated voice outside my world sounded.

'What have you done?' a familiar voice of sermon echoed inside my head.

'Blood and razor.'