The razor blade slides through the skin on my palm like a fish through water. The blood oozes out of the gash easily, sliding down my hand, gravity taking it.
I watch as the cut begins to close. The skin seems to pull together, the cut sealing in seconds. I press the razor across my skin again, and again. Every time it heals. Every time without a scar.
I feel the pain. The sharp sting as the blade goes in. My body for some reason is trying to protect itself. I’m glad for the pain. It makes me feel more substantial. If I felt nothing, I’m afraid I would slowly fade away like the cuts on my hand.
I like to push my body to extremes. I’ve cut myself many times. I’ve set fire to myself. My clothes burn off in seconds, my skin goes red and raw – until the fire stops and I start to heal, naked in a pile of ash.
I wonder if I can catch diseases or drown. What would happen if I went into space with no astronaut suit?
Sometimes I scare my parents. I don’t exactly act like a normal nine year old. I have aged far beyond my years. Even though with my ability I could impress my friends, that sort of thing doesn’t interest me. Instead, I test my body.
I get up off the couch, slide the razor into my pocket and walk out of the flat. My parents think I’m fragile so they insist on home schooling me, except this week my tutor is on holiday, so I have the whole day.
The lift in the flat building is wood panelled, and has a large mirror on one side I like to pull faces at.
The bell dings and the doors open. I step out of the lift, stroll to the door and out of the building. Automatic doors open and close as I pass through like a king – King Kama Chowdry, lord of healing.
I prance down the road to the tube station, swipe my oyster card and ride into darkness.
I always feel sleepy on trains. The noise and vibrations are like a lullaby to me.
I fell asleep once, and my ipod was stolen. I haven’t made that mistake again.
The air is warm, hot even. The lights in the carriage are yellow. The train is speeding through the ground from station to station, taking people to work. But I’m not going anywhere, just drifting.
You need friends in life, a support system. I’ve never really had that.
I look around the cabin. Men in suits and women in black skirts.
The train stops. The platform looks so much freer than the stuffy carriage. I decide to get off. The platform is empty. The train makes its noise and is gone.
It feels menacing. The empty paths are wider than usual, the shadows darker. I look at my watch – eight-thirty in the morning. It should be rush hour. So where is everyone?
As I walk, the air grows warmer, slowly at first. Then suddenly the air is on fire. Gagging, I run up to the surface.
The cement floor is groaning and cracking. The heat is so intense, my skin is blistering and reddening. What is happening?
The ticket booths are empty, the gates wide open. I reach the steps. The air feels solid. I fall to the ground, grasping at my throat. The heat is unbearable, as if a flame is being pushed down my mouth and up my nose.
I’d burnt myself before, but this time was different. This time I was scared.
I was scared, because I knew I could die.
