A Long Division

The flickering sign made me nervous. “The Razor Blade.”

Is that supposed to be a joke? I stood for a moment contemplating the answer and chewed on my bottom lip. Besides the random glow of the sign, the alley around me was still. A minute or two passed and I realized I was stalling. They aren’t paying me by the hour.

I checked the glock tucked into the front of my belt — just for the comfort of it— took one last look at the shit for bulbs sign, and walked toward the door.

It was a simple door made of metal. Steel would be my guess. I decided a typical knock would smart a bit, so I pounded three times with the flat of my fist. Then I counted to five and pounded once more, just like they told me. The door scraped forward and I backed up a step to give it room. A nice looking young man in a black suit stood in the threshold, a dim light from behind accented his frame.

“I’m here to see the goddess, “ I said.

“Welcome to the Razor Blade.” His voice was shaky and I assumed he was older than he looked. Much older. “We’ve been expecting you Mr. Cole.”

I nodded and stepped inside.

“Continue forward.” He said.

I acquiesced my greeters command and walked slowly down the hall in front of me, the steel door scraping closed behind. Through the muted light I could see the hall was long. A dank, wet odor hung in my nose. With each step, I was aware of the soft slap of my shoes, suggesting there was a small bit of water on the concrete floor. The air felt moist on my face and neck.

At the end of the hall I came upon another door; this one also steel, but with a small mirror centered at eye level.

I looked at myself. Even in the half-light, the dark bags under my eyes and the crows-feet spoke of a tired, aging man. My skin was rough and the scar on my right cheek was a little more jagged than I remembered.

“Do you wish to make the imperfect, perfect?” a sudden voice spoke from behind the door. How it traveled through the steel I do not know.

I continued with the little entrance exam, just like they told me to. “Yes. Yes, I wish for you to cut… me.”

I thought of the glock tucked in my belt, but in that moment it was not comforting. This is some creepy shit.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I am sure.”

“You do not sound… sure.”

“I am sure. I wish for you to cut me.”

“Then come in.”

The door clicked. I waited a moment, expecting the door to swing open as before, but instead a handle emerged center right. I’m in. I took a deep breath, then grabbed the handle and pushed open the door.

A warm inviting light filled my eyes and the memory of the hard dank hallway I had just passed through dissolved into the softest, plushest and perhaps largest room I had ever been in. Men and women of unimaginable beauty were spread about, some walking, some standing in groups talking, and some lounging in couches clustered around touch-screens with which they interacted. Most held some sort of flask or bottle, occasionally sipping its contents.

“Welcome Mr. Cole,” spoke a silk voice next to me. I turned. “Welcome to The Razor Blade, or as we who have been cut call it, True Beginnings.”

My eyes narrowed and I swallowed hard as I took in the woman standing before me: Green eyes of dirty jade were set in a red storm of shoulder length curls; a nose perfectly established in a sea of milky white blemish-free skin; slightly upturned lips full and glistening and gently parted with the tip of a sweet pink tongue; high cheek bones curved into a subtle firm chin; a neck flowing so gracefully downward, spilling between the soft rise of mostly covered breasts; nipples hidden playfully under thin white fabric, like two dark moons just beneath the clouds—

“Do you like what you see, Mr. Cole?”

I brought my eyes up to hers. Damn they were green. “Yes. Yes, I do. Like what I see.” I could feel my cheeks flush red.

“Do not be embarrassed, Mr. Cole.” She and her lips were suddenly an inch from my face. “It is human to be”—I do not know how she moved in so quickly, her hand was on my crotch now—“moved by perfection.” She was right, I was moved.

And then she was behind me and the cold barrel of my glock pressed against my temple. She whispered into my ear, “You’re fucked, Detective Grant.” I swallowed again, harder this time. “Yes. We know who you really are. But after we cut you,” Brittney, I presume, shifted to my other ear, “we will be the only ones.”

Celluloid scenes soak in water. People at a party. A wedding. No a bar mitzvah. I’m straining to make out their faces. The water is red. Is it water? There is a boy-man. He is clearly the subject of the photograph and he is dancing and smiling. I know that boy. The red water is bleeding into the scene. I thrust my hands into the bowl, grabbing, but the picture is no more. I observe my hands. They are stained.

I’m at a sink, washing, scrubbing. The red will not come out. The tips of my fingers sting, then throb. Are my hands bleeding? That is not my blood. I see finger nails circling the drain and disappear down the hole. “No! No, those are mine!” I yell.

I now stand at a full body mirror. But that is not my body. There is no face. Just… a smudge, like the end of a wet eraser rubbing away pencil on paper. It’s tearing a hole. There is nothing underneath. “Donavan.” I hear my voice. It’s a whisper. I spin but see no one. “Donavan, I’m here.” I turn and see Amber in the mirror. She staggers. “Oh Donny. Where did you go?” She’s reaching for my cheek but it is not there.

I am mirror. I am falling. I know what is coming and submit to impact.

I am a thousand shards. Divided unevenly. I feel the heat of the sun. I am pieces and I am melting.

I am whole again, but formless, being passed from gloved hands to gloved hands. No, stolen. Someone is stealing me. Pressure cups me. I am subtracted from myself again.

And again.

And.again

A n d . a g a i n

nAd.gaani

a.dnaiAn

a . d n a i A n

a.dnaiAn

nAd.gaani

And.again

A n d . a g a i n

And again.

I am thinking of my children. I am thinking of their mother and the story she will tell them. The way she always makes me heroic, even in my betrayal. I think of the way they see through her fabrications. I think of their questions. Of their tears. Of their ache. Of my absence.

If this is not death I am ready to die. But they won’t let me. I see them as they remove my eyes. The final nip and tuck of their thievery.

I will wake. I know there is no choice in this matter. It will come. There better be a bar near by.