The toilets are empty ,as I knew they would be. I find the cleanest cubicle and lock the door. For a long time I stare at the razor but do nothing with it. I am not afraid. Quite the opposite. I am excited. The anticipation of the calm serenity which I know will overcome me when I make a cut, causes my hands to shake with excitement.
I hold the blade up towards the electric strip lights. The bulbs are covered so the metal doesn’t gleam as much as it does at home, but it sparkles enough to entice me to turn it around and around in my hands.
I want to cut so badly. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. Soon I can’t stand it any longer; the wait, the heady anticipation. I bare my skin and make a cut on my upper thigh, the one I’ve already marked. Blood wells and flows and I mop it up and flush the evidence of bloodied tissue away, watching it swirl around the white porcelain bowl like an unfurling flag.
It’s my flag. My banner. My proclamation that I still exist. Whether I want to or not.