razor

I wake, sweating, to the echoes of a voice in the room, but whether it came from inside or outside my dream, I'm not sure. Slivers of moonlight slice through blinds, lighting the lonely studio apartment before me: a clear line of sight to the door, my entire life within 500 square feet. Someone is in the room. I smell their earthy scent. There! Next to the closet, a young woman leaning against the wall and wearing a loose red dress, bare feet, black hair bound in a slick ponytail, and in her palm, razor blades gleam in the dark. I am frozen. She speaks, and her sharp voice cuts through the silence. You are weak. You have weakened yourself. You choose to ignore yourself. You are not who you think you are, and now, you face the pain of self-knowledge. I open my mouth to respond, but she flies across the room, and I cower tangled in bed sheets, but she grabs my head, her nails digging into my scalp and face. She takes a razor blade and slices into my soft cheek. I scream and claw, but she is immovable. Finishing the cut, she steps back, extending the palmful of blades. Her stony scowl says she won't stop until I hold a blade, slash face, slash nose, slash X in my forehead, anything she says. I drift outside myself, tethered by the sting and throb of nerves, but nothing is enough for her, and she compels me deeper until strips of skin slide to the floor and everything grows hellishly hot and pain slithers up my body and the sheets are lit with a fiery glow. The girl's dark disembodied voice resounds through the room, I see there is more that must be stripped away, and I am swallowed by flames.