Dawn was rising. Through the blind slits of his bedroom window, he could tell the that morning was approaching. He sat up on the side of the bed. Slumped, beaten and tired, he raised his head and looked into the dresser mirror. His face was barely recognizable to himself; the tears were heavier, his breathing erratic and his body tense. To his right was a night stand with three drawers. Inside were memorabilia from over the years. Odd items that were remnants and reminders of his late Grandmother's desire to hold on to things. The top drawer contained marbles, and jacks--red dice, and a miniature-battery operated personal fan.
She could find the oddest things when she would go shopping in the years before her retirement, which was a long time ago. Early 80's if memory served him correctly.
In the back of the drawer, underneath some "fuzzy" No.2 pencils were two mini boxes of razors. For a second he asked himself, "why?'
Why did he keep these razors? He had done a majority of the ritual packing and donating of her belongings. All the little knick-knacks she had collected over the years. His Grandmother was the type of woman who always thought that something she had could be used again. A recycling pro before her time.
He held the box in his hand and tried to find the opening. He honestly wasn't sure what he would find once he opened them; for all he knew, they could've been rusted from the years of sitting in her drawers. To his surprise they were not in any way, shape or form "rusty." A sign he thought; in the frenzy and fever of despair, it seemed almost as if they were waiting for him. It wasn't until much later that he realized that maybe, just maybe, these feelings had a place of origin. And he had left them there for this moment.
He stood up and took a cigarette, a Newport Medium and his lighter. He fumbled around the bed, almost bumping into the main dresser. He shifted around the storage unit at the foot of the bed. Bumped into the chair at the window but felt nothing. He walked to the bedroom door and opened it. His balance was off and he needed to grab a hold onto the wall leading into the bathroom. The coolness of the floor resonated in his body, sending a chill up through his legs. He placed his hand on the sink and tried to look into the mirror, but he couldn't, the fear of seeing what he imagined himself looking like was scarier than what his body was now doing. He was on auto-pilot. He couldn't think, he couldn't articulate a word. His mind was racing and his thoughts scrambled. He sat down on the toilet and lit the cigarette. He looked at the door--stood up and closed it all the way. He heard the door latch click--almost with an echoe. He stumbled back to the seat and inhaled the cigarette. The taste in his mouth was bitter and rancid. His mouth was dry and although he felt the urge to pee, nothing was coming out. He turned to his right and looked at the green laquered bathtub. The shower curtains were halfway drawn, so he pushed them back further. He shifted his body diagonally and turned the knobs and placed the water stopper in the drain. The water began to chug out--is this really happening, he thought.
As he watched the water fill, he looked at the bathroom door. The frenzy he was falling into was taking over; his resolve was manifesting itself, it took courage. Although he knew that that wasn't what anyone would think.
The consequences were this--an eternity in some limbo for wayward souls.
It was almost enticing. A place where he could just "be."
His imagination began to take over and the wonder of what was coming, began to seem almost inviting. He rationalized it with this--I'm Gay. I'm HIV+. What was two out of three strikes--why not just make it "three" and call it a day?
GOD knew what was going down and he figured he'd have to answer to HIM, but so what, it didn't matter. In the eyes of GOD, as was instilled in him in his early years, a sin is a sin, is a sin. He was already damned according the bible pushers. The "fanatics" who interpreted scriptures to the best of their human ability. This is wrong and this is wrong and this is wrong. All his life, that's all he heard.
His hands began to quiver as he took a final drag of the cigarette. He stared at them for a moment and thought, "what are you scared of?" He spread his legs and dropped the cigarette into the toilet, nearly tagging his penis. He stood up and removed his underwear from around his ankles. He sat back down, dizzy he was feeling, and lifted his shirt over his head. He then folded the shirt and underwear and placed them to his left underneath the bathroom closet. As he looked up, the ceiling window was getting brighter-- he looked in the closet and noticed the crumbling wall paper and concrete. Years of neglect had left paint chips and dust primarily on the top shelf, but from where he sat, it was all just falling apart. He became disgusted with himself, again.
Without hesitation he sat down into the water. It was luke warm at best but it wouldn't matter in a few moments.
He placed the razor in the soap dish attached to the tiled bath. He put his hands in the water and then underneath his legs, mainly to warm the up, and then quickly brought them out. He grabbed the razor and turned over his left wrist. Hands shaking and tears running down his cheeks, he placed the edge of the razor against his wrist. Pressed down and held it for a moment. He took a breath and dug deeper, this time drawing the razor down toward the inner crutch of his elbow. He hadn't gotten past the wrist-watch area of his forearm, when the blood began to trickle and bubble from the cuts he had begun; he placed his arm into the water and watched to see the flowage. To his surprise it wasn't flowing as rapidly as he thought or expected. Razor still in his right hand, he placed it in the same initial area and pressed harder. This time though, he just keep pressing and digging into his skin. He then used the razor to "part" what little of the inside skin was showing, in hopes of opening the slit even further. He slowly parted the skin like he used to do to his hair as a child. Placing the arm in the water again, more blood began to flow. He looked down at his knees and to the side, he could tell the water was getting darker. But not dark enough. That's when he took the razor in his left hand and proceeded to repeat the prior steps, this time on his right. There was a little pain in his left wrist. "Oh yeah," he thought.
He then placed the edge on his right wrist and dug in--he could barely hold the razor at this point. Then he thought, do it in the water. The water will soften the skin and would make it easier. He did; and it did.
Blood now was trickling down both his forearms. He placed the razor back onto the soap dish and laid back to rest. Tears covered his eyes, almost blinding him--he leaned his head against the wall of the bath and began sobbing silently.
One thing he knew for sure, no one would find him until after he was gone. It was Easter Sunday. His sister had planned to go to church with her daughter. The day before they had went to the mall to buy dresses for the occasion. It reminded him of the days as a young kid, his Grandmother, or Father, depending on if he was in Jersey playing cards with his friends or not, would take him and his brother to buy new suits for Easter. A very big warehouse on North Broad Street that made custom suits. It was a ritual he didn't like very much, because he didn't like wearing suits period. He especially didn't like being told he was still gaining to much weight. Each and every year through middle school graduation, it was an excursion that made him sick to his stomach.
No one would be coming by the house anytime soon, at least not until the afternoon, when his sister would need to disappear for a while and come over to play games on the computer and smoke tree.
As he laid back into the water, he began moving his arms. Then he would press against them, all in hopes of speeding up the process.
The water by this time was a murky gray. He pulled both wrists up and examined them...the blood was...stopping. "No,' he said.
He began pressing against the sides of the wounds. First the left and then the right. He pressed to push more blood out of his body. More came, but his eyes were beginning to become heavy. It was getting harder to keep his eyes open. He shifted in the tub and did the same to his right wrist. Although the cut wasn't as deep as the left wrist, the blood , albeit slow, was still flowing. He fell back into the tub and felt a chill. The water wasn't cooling down. Normally he would've turned the hot water back on, but he couldn't turn the knobs now. He laid back again, this time, resigning to the fate he had begun.
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