It and I

It was all set. I opened the bathroom door. Filthy door. Used to be
white, now it was gray, it was black, probably from the millions of
hands that had touched it. And it had never been cleaned; it was not
supposed to be cleaned. At least it was lighted, unlike the narrow
corridor of the house.

The Person was always behind me. Not in a threatening distance but
close enough to feel Its presence. I never realized if It was a man or
a woman. It didn't smell at all. And I'm not talking about a distinct
smell. It didn't smell of anything. But it looked a lot like the
androgynous figures I used to draw and I was certain about that,
although up to that moment that was yet to come, I hadn't seen Its face
or body. I just felt It. And It was so quiet, It never spoke and Its
steps were so light that I couldn't hear them. I couldn't turn and look
at It. There wasn't enough time. But there was a mirror.

Only for a moment I saw the blurred, grayish image, which then rushed
to hide behind my back. I tried to hand It the razor I was holding, as
we had agreed. But, to my surprise, It had changed Its mind! This
refusal gave me a new and only option. I had to do it myself. It took
me a few moments to reorganise my thoughts. My eyes didn't leave the
mirror as I raised the old razor. Shall I do it myself? I wondered. It
certainly was challenging. Do I dare? I had tried more difficult and
absolutely more irrational things in my life. "Let's get it over with",
I thought. The Person had stepped back, probably out of discretion. My
friends say that dying is the most personal moment but I always
preferred to share things, which in this case meant not dying with the
Person's company but from the Person's hand. It was a bit disappointing
but I realized that I was alone in this. "Oh well, one can't have it
all", I thought and went on with my business.

I held the razor with my right hand, at the height of my chin, elbow
closed. (In the meantime, I watched the whole scene through the
mirror.) Without moving the elbow, slowly, I raised my arm so that the
razor came in parallel position to the ground. Then I moved my arm and
elbow a bit, just to reach the left side of my neck. The blade touched
the skin. I felt that I knew what to do. It was like when I had pierced
my ears alone; I just pressed the steel on the flesh, a slit of the
skin in the beginning and another one in the end, when the earring had
reached the other side. Of course a razor blade is sharper, it wouldn't
be that difficult and it would probably hurt less. So I pushed and the
skin slit and I started bleeding almost immediately. Then I jerked my
elbow back to make the cut big, like a second smile. I felt an
overwhelming weakness. Oh, it was like the effect of strong drugs, only
better. I wanted to relax and maybe sleep and definitely die.

I couldn't stand on my feet any longer, so I left the basin and I
leaned rightwards, trying to sit down, with my back against the wall.
It was hard to keep balance. I moved as slowly as I could but bumping
my back and head on the wall was inevitable. While falling, I kept my
eyes closed, or maybe I kept them open but all I saw was a black
curtain. After bumping my head, I made a conscious effort to open my
eyes and I saw the Person standing on the wall on my left, opposite to
the mirror. It was the first time that I looked at It. The Person was
tall and thin in unusual proportions. A shade of gray covered the whole
figure. There was no expression on Its face. I smiled and said "Good
night" as I handed It the razor. It took it and I think that It was
compassionate, although there was no obvious sign of it or of anything
else. I couldn't hold my eyes open. The world faded out. "So, this must
be it" I thought and I tried to explore my last feelings. Dying was
sweet, like falling asleep after a long, tiring day.

Time was passing. Why was I still there? Could it be that the cut
wasn't deep enough? I coughed, trying not to choke on my blood. I felt
its sweet taste on my lips. But why not choke, if all I wanted to do
was die? "Oh, no, not these afterthoughts?" I could barely reach the
top of the basin but I tried to grasp it and get up, hoping that it
would bear my weight. I saw my face in the mirror again. Indeed, my
lips were coloured with a lively red but the blood was just oozing from
my throat. There seemed to be a fairly good chance to survive. Did I
want to? Even if I made it, I would have to bare that horrible scar of
a slit and stitched throat for the rest of my life. And I didn't like
polo-neck sweaters. Not to mention the summer horror: children pointing
at me, people turning their eyes away after having stared enough.
Stupid thoughts of a numb mind, yes, but the fact was that I would
become "the Scar," instead of "Me," whoever that was. Becoming a ghost
of myself was not my idea of living. And even if I preferred the Scar
to live, how was I to rescue it? I was powerless. I could not just open
the bathroom door and scream for help. Maybe I could crawl to the dark
corridor and lie there until somebody came, which, in fact, could take
a really long time and might be rather pointless, since no one that
came there was at a state of caring about anything.

I was too tired even thinking about it. All alone and too tired. I just
lied back on the wall again and closed my eyes. "Let it be what it
will?" Then, I thought about the Person and then, I thought about the
Scar. And then, I thought, and this was the last thought, whether these
two could ever become friends. If I lived.