Mr. Razor

Mr. Razor John Razor crouched in the corner of his room. Nothing was in the room but him. Or was there? He couldn't see further than a few inches past his feet. He didn't even know if it was a room because he felt the corner keeping him from falling into an abyss of nothingness. It wouldn't make a difference, though. He felt as though he was in a void of nothing. There were no defining features anywhere, only the dark and musky corner that he leaned precariously on. A point rushed toward him. The void drained down behind him. He was thrust into a room filled to the brim with all sorts of colors, and smells, and it was overwhelming. He couldn't focus on one thing. The space around him kept changing, he felt so alert he couldn't take it. He pulled back his head, closed his eyes and tried to scream but, wait, his eyes were closed. He could see faint colors, but they were dimmed, like a fuse had just broken. He closed his mouth and kept his eyes shut. He could bear this, he could relax. He slowly opened his eyes. The colors flooded him, but slowly, he saw them in focus. He realized he was in a classroom, and everyone was staring at him. He was in the back row of the classroom, and all the kids in it were staring at him, open eyed and confused. He tilted his head down facing his desk, and looking at it. All over were etchings of dead bodies and creepy figures, as though they were overshadowing something. There were chips and scratches roughly making out a large crazy face with crooked teeth and a bloodstained hat. He smiled. That face was of his favorite person in the world, Crazy Jack. Crazy Jack was a comic character, who was a murderous, barbaric, psychotic, affluent serial killer who's animosity for happiness filled up every panel. His trademark was a blood stained hat. He was like a parasite, that fed and constricted around John's mind. When he looked up, he saw that the teacher had gone on with his lesson. Everyone had their back turned, and he felt isolated, like they were miles away. They were repulsed by him, they called him freak and rebuffed any attempt he made at friendship. A shrill ring filled the room. It lightly shook his desk, and he felt his butterfly knife rattle in his pocket. Everyone got up and left, and he soon followed. Down the hallway he strode, making a left, then a right, then walking down a long hall way, people giving him deathly and glaring looks of disgust all the way.

He emerged into the cafeteria, where people where lining up to get their sustenance for the day. Metal clanged against plastic as they were served heaping globs of gelatin, and other food substances. The smell of sweat and meat loaf poured into the room. He walked to an empty table and sat down. He put down his backpack and unzipped the biggest compartment. He pulled out a brown paper bag. People stared as he pulled out his sandwich, pointing and whispering. He was an animal to them, acting in ways they couldn't understand. He glanced at one woman, Sarah Bolemer. She was the love of his life, and he always though about her. Suddenly, his muscles took over. His body got up, and put his backpack on, while his mind was screaming in contradiction, knowing exactly where it was taking him. He walked over to Sarah”s table and stopped a few feet away from her. “What do you want?” she asked in an angry and contradicting tone. “Hi,” John said. “I was just wondering, would you want to ...maybe...go for some ice cream?” he asked. She smiled. “I'd love to.” John's heard raced. He felt as though he was flying through the air. He was in a pool of ecstasy. Then the world clicked back into focus. “Hello?” Sarah asked. “I said no... why are you still here, are you some kind of freak?” Something in john's mind dislodged and smashed. He felt his body jump off a cliff, the words she said echoing around him. “freak...you're a freak...some kind of.......freak”. He felt his muscles tensing. He felt everything around him changing. He felt more alert, more intelligent, more... murderous. He zipped open his backpack, and put a hat on. He whipped out his butterfly knife, twirled it a little bit, then plunged it straight through her neck. The lunchroom was silent. He removed the knife slowly, letting the blood flow out. She gurgled and twitched periodically. He took off his hat, and dipped his finger in the blood. He flicked his finger toward his had, and a bloodstain had appeared. He put it back on, grinned, and walked toward the next closest person in the room. The people screamed, and started running. “this is going to be fun,” he thought.