Friday, 8 August 2014

The Razor's Edge


Sitting with her sleeves up, sliding the razor's edge across her forearm, enjoying the tug of the blade as it sawed back and forth. To and fro. Stirring the down of the hair there as it dragged along over it, the pressure intensifying as she gave the cut-throat more weight.

It was a dark night outside, just the stars and the moon lighting her room. Downstairs her dad was probably asleep, passed out in front of the telly, surrounded by the dead bodies of three or four six-packs. If Jayne was lucky, it'd be more and he'd not wake until the sun came up again: stamping up the wooden stairs to her room and demanding that she get up immediately and make his breakfast. Or feel the bite of his belt.

But if she was unlucky, he'd wake up in the small hours, alone and feeling his grief again. And then when he pulled his belt out from its loops, she'd be afraid for another reason.

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