Beautiful Razor, Bitter Pill

Beautiful Razor, Bitter Pill

By way of candlelight orange flames dance and cast a curved shadow upon a chipped tiled wall.  Labored breathing fans stringy hair concealing a face stretched in agony.  Here she sits alone without as much as an insect to pay her attention.  With trembling, clammy fingers she turns in one hand a razor and a bottle of pills in the other.

Pick one.  Pick both.  Either way it will be a perfect end to an imperfect life. 

Through teary vision she regards one, but refuses to neglect the other.  It should have been an easy decision.  One offered pain and ivory division with a promise of a crimson river.  Then there was consumption of bitterness and biological distress. 

Pick one!  Pick both!  Don’t just sit there!

The razor falls with a clang and disappears into darkness as she twists the cap off the bottle.  One after another she pops orange pills into her mouth, chews them and swallows them dry.  Certainly bitterness vengefully prickles her tongue, gums and cheeks then her throat.

She coughs, gazes into the bottle to see several remaining but rapidly recognizes the crusade waging in her abdomen and drops the tan container. Now nausea binds her and desperate she searches in earnest haste for the razor. 

Find it!  Find it, you pathetic, b***h!

Just when she thinks its fierce kiss is lost her fingers graze something cool and metallic.  It glints as she presses it firmly to her throat though pauses before giving herself a wide grin that spews uneven red ribbons into the air.