Jet stood in front of the mirror, his hair still wet, shiny like lacquered mahogany. Razor in hand he contemplated the fastest way to end it. The steam was warm, he read that it hurt less if it was warm, almost like slicing through a delicate veil. Holding the blade to his wrist, he pressed lightly. It was a good blade, happy and sharp, it knew what Jet wanted to do. It anticipated its fine quick dance across the peach skin of its holder and it would sing a happy song of red.
Jet held the blade tight and looked at himself in the mirror. Longing honey black eyes, sad eyes his friends called them, stared back at him. He wondered if those eyes were really his. Was the man in the mirror the same man holding the razor?
He sighed, and in a split second, he let the razor swim on his skin. His enjoyment in pain lasted in a small second that seemed to melt into a slow beautiful forever. But even that momentary joy ended like so many things in his life and Jet pulled the sharpness away from him.
The man in the mirror, boy more like it, laughed at him. He made no sound, but he could feel it. It was not him in the mirror, it was something else, something deeper that hid itself in the darkness of his mind. A deep despair that nestled itself into Jet, that was who was looking back at him.
A knock on the bathroom door, rushing him to finish up. Jet was going to be late. He turned on the blow dryer and all he heard was the roaring of the fan.
It was going to be another painful day. He didn't know when the pain would end.
And for a split second, he enjoyed the pain.
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