"It seems that my friend died in a viscous razor fight, I shoulda told him, razors never die."

"Do you just get so much anger inside, you feel like there's no other way to release it?" I ask her, hoping to keep her conscious until we reach the hospital. "It's not even that", she replies. "It's more like the only way I feel that I'm still alive." There's a slight pause, before she continues. "Do you want to see my newest scar?"

When she called around 1:30 AM, she had told me she was drinking heavily, and needed someone to talk to. At the time, it seemed like a reasonable story. Why wouldn't it? The time was right. She could drink any man I know under the table, and was famous for staying at bars until last-call. Moments ago, when she began turning white as a ghost, and lost the ability to hold her head up without the assistance of her hand, I knew there was more than just alcohol involved. Without her even noticing, I turned the car around and began heading toward the local hospital, and away from the all-night diner we were planning to spend some time at.

You see, she had a problem with razor-blades. Namely, she liked to use them to cut herself open. Although I saw no blood, I had started to suspect this is what she had done before calling me. Sure, a few drinks may have been involved, but it would take a few-hundred to get someone like her as far-gone as she was beginning to appear. When she rapidly turned the conversation into a "why I slice myself open" type rant, I started to feel queasy. When the request to look at her "newest scar" came, I just wanted to start the night over with my telephone-ringer off . . . let somebody else deal with it. I mean, I'm not her only friend, am I?

Without confirming whether or not I wanted to see the scar, she begins lifting up her shirt. What she reveals is worse than I had initially imagined. Rather than a scar, I see a fresh cut located directly below her breasts; it stretches horizontally from one side of her stomach to the other. Glistening blood makes its way through the center of this gaping sore, and some more is scattered around her stomach and chest. "When did you do this?" I ask, trying not to sound as upset as I feel. "About two hours before I called you", she tells me, eyes welling up with tears, contradicting the smile upon her lips. I see in the rearview mirror that I have also become pale as a ghost.

I look away from the mirror and back down at the wound, which she is still proudly displaying, and notice for the first time that there's blood on her shirt. "You're still bleeding," I say. "Not anymore," she responds in a perky manner, "it's pretty much stopped. I was bleeding a little when you first picked me up. That's why I wouldn't let you come into the house, before we left. I didn't want you to notice." She giggles. "We need to get you to the doctor," is all I can think of to say, revealing my true intentions. The car is silent for a good minute, a brief calm before the storm.

As I make a left, working my way closer to the hospital, she begins crying hysterically. Through the sobs I hear her telling me what I'm doing is "fine" and to get her there as fast as I can. "I think I need it", she cries. Another minute goes by before she calms down a bit. "You don't get it, do you?" She asks, rhetorically. I keep my eyes on the road and don't bother to answer. "The secret to life is a razor-blade . . ."

Written by: Alex Sandell

". . . I cut myself for pleasure. It validates my existence. It proves to me that I'm really there." She has went from crying to laughing as she tries, once again, to describe her insanity. "That doesn't make sense." I return. She eyes me in a way that sends chills through my body. "Let me show you" she responds, as she quickly pulls a blade from her pocket. "Just relax - you're going to love this."

I try pushing her away, but with the renewed vigor her gleeful nuttiness has caused, and my trying to keep one eye on the road, she manages to slice open my forearm. "DO YOU FEEL IT?!? DO YOU FEEL ALIVE, YET?" "I just feel like I need stitches," I say. She laughs. Sort of a chuckle filled with bile and bitter madness. "YOU NEED MORE!" She screams. "Let me show you how it works!" she raises the blade up to her cheek "Let me show you!" she places it below her eyeball "LET ME SHOW YOU!" she rips through her skin "DO YOU SEE?" blood begins oozing its way down her face "I'M ALIVE!!!" she screeches. Before she reaches her throat I manage to grab the razor, swerving off the road in the process. We end up in a ditch, about 20 feet from the town's biggest graveyard.

She runs toward it. I follow. I grab her around the waste and she bites through my arm. I feel more warm blood gushing out of me. I wonder if she enjoys the taste. I let go long enough to let her get away. As I come toward her stumbling body, she spins around, holding another blade. A knife. It feels like I'm in "West Side Story", only the Stephen King version.

"Plot Synopsis: 3 AM. Two people standing in the middle of a deserted road. Woman with knife. Man with razor-blade. Graveyard for backdrop. Freezing rain covering everything in ice. Fog thick enough to cut through. The man with fear in his eyes. The woman with lunacy and rage inside of hers. Jesse Ventura, the Governor. Heavy on the surrealistic. Soon to be a mini-series on ABC. "

She laughs maniacally, and begins running again. I nearly catch up and end up sliding on the newborn ice, falling flat on my face. I've lost the ability to feel, or at the very least, comprehend, pain. She jumps over the short fence, and into the graveyard. When I see the streetlight staring down upon her like a spotlight, and the wind whipping up snow from between the gravestones, winding its way seductively around her body and then into the night sky, she looks like an angel. I jump the gate myself, and follow her.

We run past mausoleums, fountains, statues and stones. We're both tripping constantly. I hear her laughing the entire time. "I'm alive! I'm alive!" She yells. "Are you?" Her question causes me a chance for pause. Looking myself over I find that my pants are ripped, my elbows are bloody. Without even knowing it, I've been cutting myself. Cutting myself on the mausoleums, fountains, statues and stones we've been passing. As the ice falls from the sky, it massages the cuts, it's somehow invigorating; it makes me feel as though I'm alive.

As if she hears my thoughts, she stops and lets me catch her. "Let's go," she says, "it doesn't matter what any of them say, now. We've both been alive, and as long as we're living, we'll know that."

Making our way back, we see two squad-cars parked next to my piece of junk excuse for an automobile. Sirens are blaring. The falling-ice turns red, then blue, then white. The graveyard looks like a nightclub. We walk out as its only survivor's. This may not be much of a living, but it sure is a life.

The odd only looks normal when viewed from within. We're going to have a lot of explaining to do.

Email Alex!

1999 Alex Sandell [All Rights Reserved] Copy this without my permission and I'll show you a whole 'nother use for the Gillette Mach 3!

Back to The Juicy Cerebellum