_____V_____
04-29-2010, 02:50 AM
He came at me with a razor.
I sat numbed with fear, too terrified to speak or run. He looked at me and an evil grin broke on his lips, in anticipation of my fear of him. He took a small step forward, left arm slowly extending towards my face, right hand clutching the wicked-looking razor tightly.
I gulped without moving, rooted to my place with sheer fright. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out of it. His eyes teased me, as if saying "Come, come...don't make this hard for us!"
My nerves were on fire as he reached for the side of my face, the razor following his hand. Inside, I was screaming, shouting, pleading for help as his razor started to tear at my face from all sides - up and down the cheeks, the chin, the upper lip, below the lower lip, the cheekbones, the sides of the forehead. I felt huge gushes of blood running below the skin to the parts of my face where his razor was ripping through. My brain was urging me to fight him off and dash out, but my legs had turned to lead. I closed my eyes tightly in a silent prayer to God, to finish my ordeal as painlessly as possible. I was too afraid to open them, because I knew that the sight of my own blood and my horribly disfigured, bloody scarred face will surely make me faint in fright.
A noiseless whimper escaped my lips, as he drew back and examined me closely. I opened my eyes and searched his face for any signs of remorse. He had none. Satisfied at his sadistic artistry, he smiled at me again. His voice broke the silence between us.
"That will be 30 rupees, please."
I stared disbelievingly into the mirror at my clean-shaven reflection, then back at the barber, who had suddenly stopped smiling.
"Is there a problem?" his voice sounded sincere and anxious.
"I-I th-think," I stammered in-between a couple of gulps, "I h-have forgott-ten my wallet at home!"
I sat numbed with fear, too terrified to speak or run. He looked at me and an evil grin broke on his lips, in anticipation of my fear of him. He took a small step forward, left arm slowly extending towards my face, right hand clutching the wicked-looking razor tightly.
I gulped without moving, rooted to my place with sheer fright. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out of it. His eyes teased me, as if saying "Come, come...don't make this hard for us!"
My nerves were on fire as he reached for the side of my face, the razor following his hand. Inside, I was screaming, shouting, pleading for help as his razor started to tear at my face from all sides - up and down the cheeks, the chin, the upper lip, below the lower lip, the cheekbones, the sides of the forehead. I felt huge gushes of blood running below the skin to the parts of my face where his razor was ripping through. My brain was urging me to fight him off and dash out, but my legs had turned to lead. I closed my eyes tightly in a silent prayer to God, to finish my ordeal as painlessly as possible. I was too afraid to open them, because I knew that the sight of my own blood and my horribly disfigured, bloody scarred face will surely make me faint in fright.
A noiseless whimper escaped my lips, as he drew back and examined me closely. I opened my eyes and searched his face for any signs of remorse. He had none. Satisfied at his sadistic artistry, he smiled at me again. His voice broke the silence between us.
"That will be 30 rupees, please."
I stared disbelievingly into the mirror at my clean-shaven reflection, then back at the barber, who had suddenly stopped smiling.
"Is there a problem?" his voice sounded sincere and anxious.
"I-I th-think," I stammered in-between a couple of gulps, "I h-have forgott-ten my wallet at home!"