I can’t remember the first time I was told the razor story. I think it was my uncle who told me. I was at my mother’s parents’ home and alone in the garage when my uncle walked in to find me sitting on the floor, slicing across my fingers and palm with a razor blade. They told the story laughing, telling me I wasn’t crying or anything, that they suspected the thin blade didn’t really hurt, but I was fascinated by the red lines appearing on my fingers. My mom never laughed when the story was told. I suspect she was reprimanded for letting me off unattended and she was upset by the self-harm. But my uncle got a kick out of the telling. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he became a Coroner for the Sheriff’s office and enjoyed telling the stories of the many crime scenes he has seen.
I don’t know why the razor story came into my mind as I was driving today. But I felt like I should write it down.
