The Mind is a Razorblade

by Max Booth III

  Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?

  I close my eyes and try to return to the restaurant, but it’s no use. The girl is gone, and already I miss her so much it hurts.

  “What the fuck are you doing on the ground, man?” shouts a man standing above me.

  I nearly scream. I snap my head up and give him my full attention, fearing he’s about to attack me. Instead he just casually stands on the sidewalk next to me, holding a half-smoked cigarette. His bald head glistens under the muted glow of a streetlight. He wears a dark blue button-up shirt, collars pointing straight up.

  Indigo, the color is indigo...

  “Excuse me?” I mumble, suddenly afraid the man might be a hallucination. Just some irritating deus ex machina I conjured as my own personal savior.

  “I said, what the fuck are you doing on the ground? You’re gonna get trampled, you stay like that long enough. You of all people should know that.”

  I clear my throat, frantically climbing to my feet to meet him at eye-level. “You...you know me?”

  “What?”

  “What do you mean, ‘you of all people’?”

  “Shit, man, you know what I mean. You travel these streets more than anyone else. You know what happens if you screw around.”

  “No.” I edge closer to him. “Please tell me.”

  The man raises his brow, looking at me like I’m a lunatic, and he’s right.

  “Uh, I need to get back inside,” he says, and turns around and heads toward a set of doors a block down. The doors project a bright light from inside the building, and I don’t understand how I’m only just now noticing them.

  “You’re late—you know that, right?” he says over his shoulder. “Lamb is gonna be seriously pissed, man.”

  I have to shield my eyes as I step through the automatic sliding doors. The light is incredibly harsh. Spending an eternity in this night, under these clouds, it’s going to take some time to readjust to such cosmic change in lighting.

  The waxed floor squeaks beneath my feet. A glare gnaws at my eyeballs and I try my best to fight blindness. The bald man walks behind the counter and I meet him on the opposite side, a cash register and a bin of condoms placed atop the Formica. Racks upon racks of cigarette cartons are inserted into the wall behind him, a banner stretched above them claiming to be fifty percent off.

  “What the hell are you wearing?” The clerk nods at my getup.

  “A coat.”

  “No shit.”

  There’s something about this man, now that I’ve had a chance to see him in full light. I’m not sure what it is exactly, but I know I do not like him.

  I don’t think he likes me, either.

  “The fuck are you looking at me like that for?”

  “Huh?”

  “Stop staring at me like that,” the clerk says. “You’re creeping me out.”

  “We don’t like each other too much, do we?”

  The clerk eyes me funny, presses his hands on the counter, and leans forward. “You fuckin’ with me?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say, and I’m telling the truth. “Look, why don’t you just tell me what my name is? Then we can move on from there.”

  The clerk sneers. “Where in the hell have you been, anyway?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Whatever. I don’t care. Just make sure Lamb knows this has nothing to do with me. It’s late because of you. Got it?”

  “What?”

  I jump back as the clerk pounds his fist on the counter. “Listen here, asshole, quit screwing around for once and do what you’re paid to do. Both of our jobs are at stake here. Comprende, retard?”

  “Um.”

  He sighs and bends down under the counter, coming back up with a rather hefty shoulder bag. He drops it on the clear surface of the counter between us.

  “There ya go, smartass. Now get the hell out of my store.”

  “First tell me my name.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “At least tell me something.”

  “Okay, how about you’re really beginning to piss me off?”

  “Fair enough. What about some food?”

  “What?”

  “Food. I want some food. And something for my head. It’s killing me.”

  He sighs again. “You serious?”

  I nod.

  “Hell, man, you wanna take a shower in my employees’ bathroom while you’re at it? You disgusting little fuck—look at you! Were you fucking rolling around in mud or something? Christ.”

  “As a matter of fact...”

  He lifts his hands up, pushing against an invisible force field. “Never mind, just never mind.” He points back at the end of the store. “Goddammit, just hurry up.”

  I do not need to be told twice. I turn around and head toward where he’s directed me, jogging down an aisle searching for something that looks good enough to eat. My stomach would settle for just about anything right now.

  I grab a pastry and tear the wrapper in half with my teeth, devouring the contents within seconds. I take a chocolate bar and stuff it in my coat pocket for later. Two aisles down, I choose a bottle of ibuprofen, take four of them and slip the bottle in my pocket with the chocolate bar. Next, I make my way over to the cooler section and take out a can of beer, gulping it all down in one desperate motion.

  I manage a weak smile at the progress my mind seems to be making. An hour ago I don’t think I would have even been able to comprehend what a can of beer was—nor, for that matter, ibuprofen.

  Slowly but surely, sugar pie...

  There’s that voice again. It’s the second time I’ve heard it now. It isn’t my own, but still, the voice is comforting. Almost motherly, except it isn’t as feminine as I imagine her voice sounding.

  Hell, who knows, it probably is my mother’s voice. It makes sense. But where the hell is she, then? All I have of her is one little phrase. A phrase she must have used all the time, apparently, otherwise I doubt I’d be hearing it now, in these most ugly of times.

  “Hey, man, what the fuck are you doing back there?”

  “Coming...”

  I hurry back to the front of the store. The clerk is how I left him—arms crossed, one hell of an annoyed look across his face.

  He could be planning a way to kill me. I don’t know what this man is capable of doing. Truth is, I don’t even know what I’m capable of doing, never mind somebody else. We could all be coldblooded killers.

  “Took you long enough,” the clerk says, intensifying his angered glare.

  “Thanks.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Tell me my name.”

  “I am going to beat the shit out of you.”

  “Funny enough,” I say, cracking a smile, “I was just thinking you wouldn’t mind doing just that.”

  The clerk returns the smile. “Glad to hear we’re on the same terms then. Now leave.”

  I nod in agreement and head toward the front doors.

  “Um, don’t you think you’re forgetting about something?”

  I stop and slowly turn around, facing the clerk again, him looking at me like I’m an asshole. Then I see the shoulder bag on the counter.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  I walk back over and start to unzip the bag, but he pushes my hands away. “Are you crazy? Don’t fucking open that. You’ll be lucky if it hasn’t spoiled by now.”

  “Oh, okay, sorry.” I throw the strap over my shoulder and heave it up off the counter. It’s a lot heavier than anticipated, and I have to put up a fight not to double over with it. “So, um, where was it that I’m supposed to take this again?”

  The clerk answers me with a cold stare and refuses to say anything else. I take it as my cue to leave, lest he decides to fulfill his dreams of breaking my face.

  I stop outside the drugstore, loitering under one of the few streetlights that still seem to be functioning. I crouch down and find a seat on the curb. I breathe in the night air, glad that I’ve left the bright store
and returned to my dark sanctum.

  The city vagrants step on my bare toes as they pass, and I shout and curse at them, but they don’t seem to hear me.

  I do not last long at all before curiosity gets the best of me.

  I unzip the bag to reveal a large orange box with a white lid inside. A cooler. That’s what you call them. You put ice in these. Things you want to keep cold. Beer, soda, hamburger...other things...

  Bad things.

  Opening this bag suddenly feels like a horrible idea. Maybe I should just leave it here on the sidewalk and get as far away from the thing as possible.

  While you still can, an ominous voice in my head adds.

  “Shut up, ominous voice,” I mutter under my breath.

  Screw it. I’ve already come this far, haven’t I?

  I pop open the lid and look down, face wincing overdramatically in preparation for Hell itself to spring out at me.

  But all I see is ice.

  And the top of a very large re-sealable zipper bag.

  Hesitant, I pull the bag out of the cooler, feeling the cold ridges of more ice inside. I unzip the top and discover another bag inside this one. Only there is no ice inside this second bag. No, no ice at all.

  It is half filled with a dark reddish liquid.

  Blood.

  And the rest of the contents...

  I may have only been reborn a few hours ago in a river of mud, but I’ll be damned if I don’t know what it is that I’m looking at. I try to look away but I can’t. For the first time tonight, I find myself wishing my memory was worse off than it already is.

  I don’t want to know about this.

  I don’t want any part of this.

  I don’t want to understand what I’m staring at is called a heart—a precious life force that once belonged to another human being.

  Once belonged.

  Now this heart belongs to no one. Its previous host has fallen victim to the nevermore. Now it is in my hands. My hands. Oh God, why...?

  I can’t hold back the scream as I fling the bag off my lap. It thuds against the road and rolls a few feet to a complete stop. Only a couple seconds pass before a man in his dirty underwear bends over and scoops it up, giving the heart a quick onceover and tossing it in his shopping cart, like such discoveries are perfectly normal.

  I squeal and kick hard against the concrete, frantically pedaling backward using my hands, quickly running out of room and smacking against the brick wall of the drugstore’s exterior. Eyes bulging out of their sockets, I attempt a continuation of my backpedaling, only to smash my skull against hard concrete once more. A part of me realizes what I’m doing, but a much larger part of me doesn’t care. There are more important matters to deal with at the moment than to worry about some silly little headache.

  Such as the whole “holy shit that was a fucking heart” aspect running all sense of coherency into total pandemonium.

  Because holy shit. That was a fucking heart.

  chapter four

  Holy shit, that was a fucking heart.

  Breathe. Breathe. Crap, crap, crap. Breathe. Don’t you dare panic. Calm down. But I can’t. I can’t do anything besides focus on the fact that I’ve just thrown a human heart across the road with my own bare hands.

  Despite the memory loss, it still seems like I shouldn’t be too freaked out by this. Obviously this is the way of life, and I must have gotten used to it at some point in time—right?

  So why can’t I now?

  Shouldn’t the acceptance come as naturally as any other action I’ve done tonight? Like, say, steal a gun from a dead body, or shoot a cop?

  I shake my head, disgusted.

  No, this isn’t the same. This is different.

  This is a human fucking heart. I have one just like it, only mine is still pumping blood. Whereas this other heart is traveling by way of shopping cart.

  Jesus Christ, what is this?

  I don’t want to know, but I do. This is life. Everyone else can accept this but myself. Something must have happened to reprogram my mind, tamper with the wires within my brain to turn me into some kind of oblivious Neanderthal.

  Neanderthal?

  I know what a Neanderthal is, but I still can’t comprehend the thought of holding someone’s heart in my hands. Still can’t remember my own name. Still can’t find my way home.

  Home.

  That’s where I need to be. Home. Safety and warmth. Before it’s too late.

  The weight of the gun in my pocket is suddenly all too aware of itself.

  I stand up. Turn around. Head back into the store. The doors close behind me. The piercing scream of light bleeds into my eyes.

  I stride toward the checkout counter. The clerk sits on a stool, reading a magazine with a naked woman on the cover. Despite the large population of vagrants passing by outside, we are still the only two in the store.

  The clerk sets down his magazine, opens his mouth to say something, something that I doubt will answer any of my questions. Something I don’t want to hear. I pull out the gun from my trench coat pocket, swing my arm sideways, and hear the destructive crack of the barrel colliding into his cheekbone, smashing into his teeth. A glob of something red and menacing flings from his mouth and splatters against the cash register.

  He goes down.

  I don’t allow him any time to put up a defense. Scrambling over the counter, I leap on top of him. He gasps and I clock him again with the gun.

  I bring my face close to his, my teeth gritted together, trying my best not to tear them into his throat and drink his blood.

  “What the fuck is going on?” I scream.

  He gives me an answer I do not like, an answer that does not help me. I grab him by his neck and begin pounding his skull against the floor in unison with each syllable I spit out: “What. The. Fuck. Is. Go. Ing. On.”

  I’m a starving animal finally gone wild.

  This is my feast.

  “Tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” the clerk cries, eyes locked in my gaze.

  “Why was there a heart in that bag?”

  “What?”

  I repeat my question with another thwack of the gun. Teeth shatter and he chokes on his own blood.

  “C-c-conun-un-drae,” he stammers. “Sh-shit, m-man, same reason we do any of this. Have you lost your lo-love? Your loy-loyalty?”

  “Conundrae?”

  The clerk spits out a chunk of blood. “Goddamn dude, did you have some bad sh-shrooms or something?”

  I clear my throat and calm my tone. “What is my name?”

  And he laughs.

  He laughs.

  “Oh my God,” the clerk says, “you really have lost it, haven’t you?”

  He laughs again. Laughing like he’s the one who’s lost it, and not me. Laughing like he knows he’s right. Maybe he is. Either way, it’s just what my animal urges need to trigger blindness upon all I possess that was once rational.

  I snap.

  The pain in my head increases to the point where it doesn’t even hurt. Eyes water, nasals exhale air, lungs strangle themselves as they attempt to pump oxygen, ears feeling like they’re on fire. I can no longer think. My heartbeat decides to go into overtime, pounding furiously against my chest, almost as if it is trying to escape, trying to join the other heart in the shopping cart. The one belonging to some corpse who’s probably a lot better off than I am.

  I snap not like a tree branch, but a bone.

  I picture bashing my fists into his face until there’s nothing left, but before I can move, the clerk suddenly screams loud and miserably, and his eyeballs go from white to red within a second. A stream of blood ejects from his mouth and his skin abruptly cracks like desert rock under a cruel sun. The cracks fill up with more blood and I barely have enough time to scramble off his body before his head pops like a balloon. Blood and brain matter splatter against me and a skull fragment cuts my cheek open.

  I’m left alone in the drug store, sitting next to t
his headless corpse, crying and trying my best not to have a heart attack.

  His head.

  It exploded because of me. I did that.

  First the lamppost back at the park, now a human skull.

  I made his goddamn head explode.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  What have I done?

  What kind of monster am I?

  I sit here a few more minutes, calming my heartbeat, then try to stand back up. The floor is a river of blood and my feet keep slipping. It takes an embarrassing amount of attempts to stand before I’m able to without falling down. The clerk stares at me with his phantom head. The eyes that no longer exist glare and judge.

  I rub my head. The pain’s not of this world.

  Neither am I, apparently.

  What is wrong with my mind? Where are these strange powers coming from? Can I control them?

  Do I want to?

  I don’t know what I want anymore.

  “What have I done?”

  My voice is an echo in the empty store. The urge to vomit is all too welcoming. I can’t resist and let loose, but nothing more than a nasty fit of dry heaving ejects from my system.

  I hear the electronic beep-bloop of the automatic doors sliding open and I spin around, pistol shaking in my hand. Blood drips down my face and stains my feet. This is not good, not good at all. I conceal the weapon behind my back, but choose to leave one timid finger curled around the trigger, lest more trouble should arise.

  A man approaches the front desk. His hairy legs stick out of his loosely tied fluffy blue robe, his feet protected by a pair of slippers with bunny heads bobbling on top. They make me wish I had some footwear of my own. All I have is blood.

  Whistling, he casually points at the cigarette racks behind me and says, “Pack of Pinkly’s, in the red. Thanks.”

  “Um.”

  I try to act, but I can’t. If I could just turn around, grab the cigarettes and take this guy’s money before he looks down behind the counter, then maybe I’ll be okay. Not to mention that—

  “Hey, what the fuck?” the robed man yells, pointing at the corpse beside my feet, backing away against a rack of hats. And by God, are they fancy.

  Shit.

  I clear my throat, the gun behind my back becoming heavier and heavier by the second. “Yes?”