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"Himself (Short Story)"

He looked in the mirror to see a face he no longer recognised. A face that was once so youthful and happy, but was now greasy and bedraggled. Dark half moons shone purple-black under his grey and lifeless eyes.

He blinked.

A long dark canister lay beside the mirror and his hand grasped it and sprayed a frothy foam across his cold face. In the dimly lit bathroom he looked like a living tribute to a shopping centre Santa clause. A small smile briefly touched him thin lips, before setting back to his usual bitter pout. He picked up a razor and slowly slid it down his cheek.

He stopped.

A crimson line appeared onto his cheek and a slow trickle of blood began descending his face. A grubby fist wiped it away and the razor continued ripping hair from his face. His teeth gritted together as aftershave was splashed on his now soft cheeks. His flesh stung and burned and a thin layer of fluid built up over his grey eyes. A deep long breath.

He looked.

His reflection displeased him and it was at this moment he had an epiphany. He hated everything. The media that lie to him, the friends that used him, the family that disowned him, the job that enslaved him and the life he hated. Another deep breath. He grabbed his grubby wrist and discarded the cheap watch onto the ceramic floor. The razor was held to the bulging veins and in one swift action he pulled the razor across his wrist.

He winced.

His wrist bled but the cut wasn’t deep enough. He thought carefully for a moment and slowly dismantled the head of the razor. The blade was sharp enough and he remembered he once heard cutting the wrists across was useless – you had to cut them downwards to be effective. Most people fail suicides because they don’t cut deep enough. He was always in the minorities. He held the razor blade-down in front of his wrist. A deep breath. He pushed deep into his wrist, tissue frayed and blood squirted from his arteries. A sparkle of pain danced in his eyes and he gritted his teeth in determination, and to prevent from screaming. He pulled the blade down his wrist and forearm until his arm went limp. He fell onto the ceramic tiled floor of the dark bathroom and a smile briefly lit up his lips.

He bled.

I wrote a story called "happiness" which got good feedback from Black Glove and all the intellectuals - it was a happy story.

See if you can find it in the back pages.

If one is wanting to be a good writer, surely making a 'nice' story readable is an achievement in itself. As it is, personally, you seem to be stuck on dark stuff, and obvious stuff at that.

Darkness is much more shocking/scary IMO when it is hidden, subtle, and yet omnipotent.

That last bit had me flinching. Seeing as I seem to flinch when anyone scratches their wrist (for some odd, odd reason) this was like hell for me.

In the the best possible way, though :-)

I find it easier to be creative about dark stuff, positive stories are always lovey-dovey. My humourous side shines through in spoofs and general posts - I don't do 'nice' stories though.

Hmmmm...now Mr. Kyz, why is there always such obviously bleak and dark stuff in your writing?

The one where you look like a pirate?

...and it has my now famous scary picture!

Thought I recognised you! I added you to that trust thingy-ma-jig.

I wrote loads of opinions/reviews until they began only giving you 0.5p per review. Now I just do the surveys.

Yep, just not very often. I do a lot of their surveys and occassionally write reviews of stuff on there.

Thanks chief.

pb, do you use Ciao? I think I've seen you on there.