An Inch and a Half

An inch and a half.

A thumb gently ran along the full inch and a half, being careful enough to keep the contact towards the middle of the object. The thumb memorized the way that it made contact with the smooth, shiny metal. The piece of metal was so short and small that one could be easily lulled into a false sense of security.

The right hand held the object by the handle, carefully guiding the edge of the smooth, shiny metal to the wrist of a left hand. Gripping the object, the right hand seemed to have a mind of its own. It was a quick strike that was as fast as ripping off a bandage. In a blink of an eye, an angry, red line stared back.

A couple of minutes passed and a small amount of blood appeared at the scene.

Yet, the right hand refused to halt. Strike after strike, the right hand slashed at the exposed skin. Two lines total. Three. Four. Five. Six.

The left hand clenched into a fist. Drops of water fell onto the blanket around her shoulders as her body trembled.

The right hand, yet again, firmly gripped the handle and laid one last blow.

Seven angry, red lines. All of which barely penetrated the skin, but were deep enough to scar. The scene was an angel’s blood on a blanket of fresh snow.

Days later, when she caught sight of the marks on her skin, drops of water fell again. She looked up into the mirror. Her body trembled like it did that night when the lines appeared.

Yet she mourned not for the angel’s spilled blood, but for the sinner that stared back at her.