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Calling someone crazy, is dismissive.
Maybe the environment, is a little sick.


Submitted:Mar 16, 2013    Reads: 138    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


Scratching Nails

I sit down, right after i manage to pass through the crowd that's standing in the middle of the train.
I sit next to a man.
His clothes are ironed and so is his face.
Like a scorching hot, metal plate, was pressed against it, leaving it scarred and forever melting.
He is wearing a leather jacket, that's ripped on the shoulders and his pants are bleached.
He has one good eye and the other one is falling into oblivion every time it moves and I notice that his hair is combed, but his teeth are brown.
It's not easy. Looking at that face.
He pulls out a red box made of paper, small enough to fit, maybe 2 dollars in change.
He opens it and removes a razor, wrapped in red paper.
My mind made a million different thoughts about that razor.
In fact, i took a moment to observe the reaction of the rest of the people and it was nothing short of pure, stone-cold fear that i saw.
The real terror began, when he unwrapped it and started to scratch his nails with it.
The sound, oh the sound it made.
I stood there and watched him, eyes wide open, not being able to miss a single moment of this horrifying experience.
He didn't actually, cut his nails.
He scratched them.
Over and over again, as if he was trying to peel them off.
After every scratch, his nails turned whiter and whiter until they bled.
For thirty minutes, i sat next to him and watched him, until his fingers covered in blood and metal, were without nails.
There was something to it though, i could not understand.
Something in this man's physique that made this experience, amazingly mundane.
The sight of a rusted, burnt-out, shell of man, destroying and peeling away his image, seemed so boring to me.
That's when i knew.
That's the moment, i knew i was the crazy one.





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