Blood

I stood before the mirror and smeared some foam over my face. I took the razor and ran it through in long and quick strokes. Nothing can stop the razor, it can slice through every thing. I like the razor. Blood oozed and dripped into the wash basin, mixing with the white foam. The foam still remained white and even I could not make out if it had any blood, ever. Yesterday’s cuts were still fresh. The razor sliced through them and created fresher ones.

I stepped out, into the rain, cold wind slamming into my face. I stumbled over dead bodies, so many of them. Their flesh rotted in the mud of their own blood. No one realized it was blood. Then came the rain, washing the blood away, as if there was no blood, ever. But the mud remained and the bodies continued to rot.

I reached my destination. There was a lock. I punched it. I punched till the skin on my fist tore. I did not stop and I kept punching till I heard my bones crack. There was this lock, but there was no door. It was just a wall. I threw myself at the wall. I could not punch it and began to climb it. My nails could not take it anymore and they ripped off my fingers. The carpet which was already stained with blood was now wet with my blood. This would dry by tomorrow and would be just another stain till rain washes it all one day. Then no one would know, if this carpet was soaked in blood, ever.

I looked around and there was glass everywhere. I pounded through the glass and shards punctured me. I ran through the glass. I ran into the rain. I ploughed through the mud. I fell. I looked up, and all I could see was rain piercing through me. I dragged myself to the narrow street, flooded with mangled bodies. I was tired and my wounds hurt. I could not push myself any more. I lay with them, in the mud, rotting.