RAZOR:

THE CONTENTS OF MY BEDROOM: 

A CARPET. (AN OLD ONE.  IT’S FALLING APART.)

A PILE OF CLOTHES (NO WARDROBE).

A SMALL STEREO, BUT NO CD’S.  I LISTEN TO THE BADLY-TUNED RADIO WHEN I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING (NOT TODAY).

A BED.

AN OLD BOOK – “AWFUL DISCLOSURES, OR THE HIDDEN SECRETS OF A NUN'S LIFE IN A CONVENT EXPOSED” BY MARIA MONK.  IT’S FROM 1836.  DON'T KNOW WHERE IT CAME FROM. 

ME.

AND, AS OF THE LAST FEW HOURS … SAMANTHA. 

I’M GIDDY. 

I’VE GOT A JOB INTERVIEW TOMORROW.  I BOUGHT A SUIT THE OTHER DAY FROM A CHARITY SHOP.  IT COST ME FIVE POUNDS.  I GOT A LONG BLACK COAT TO WEAR OVER THE TOP OF IT.  CRAIG KEEPS SAYING I LOOK LIKE A DETECTIVE FROM AN OLD FILM NOIR.  KEEPS GOING ON ABOUT HOW COOL AND RETRO I LOOK.  I DON’T REALLY KNOW MUCH ABOUT THAT SORT OF THING.

I HAD A SHAVE AS WELL.  THAT’S ANOTHER THING I’VE GOT IN MY ROOM – I ALMOST FORGOT.  A RAZOR! 

There was a girl thirteen years old whom I knew in the School, who resided in the neighborhood of my mother, and with whom I had been familiar. She told me one day at school of the conduct of a priest with her at confession, at which I was astonished. It was of so criminal and shameful a nature, I could hardly believe it, and yet I had so much confidence that she spoke the truth, that I could not discredit it.

I’M SITTING WATCHING SAMANTHA SLEEP.  SHE WAKES, STRETCHES, SMILES.  SHE EMITS THE SMALLEST AND SWEETEST OF SOUNDS.  SHE IS LIKE A CHILD BEING BORN. 

“HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN WATCHING ME?” SHE SAYS. 

“JUST A MOMENT,” I SAY.  “DO YOU MIND ME WATCHING?” 

“NO,” SHE SAYS.  “IT’S NICE.”    

She was partly persuaded by the priest to believe that he could not sin, because he was a priest, and that anything he did to her would sanctify her; and yet she seemed doubtful how she should act. A priest, she had been told by him, is a holy man, and appointed to a holy office, and therefore what would be wicked in other men, could not be so in him. She told me that she had informed her mother of it, who expressed no anger nor disapprobation, but only enjoined it upon her not to speak of it; and remarked to her, that as priests were not like other men, but holy, and sent to instruct and save us, whatever they did was right. I afterward confessed to the priest that I had heard the story, and had a penance to perform for indulging a sinful curiosity in making inquiries; and the girl had another for communicating it. I afterward learned that other children had been treated in the same manner, and also of similar proceedings in other places.

THERE’S SO MUCH I WANT TO SAY TO HER, BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW TO SAY IT WITHOUT SOUNDING BLUNT, OR JUST PLAIN CRUDE. 

SOMETHING HAPPENED LAST NIGHT.  WE SHARED A BED.  WE HELD EACH OTHER IN THE DARKNESS, AND I SLEPT SOUNDER THAN I HAVE FOR YEARS.  THE NIGHTMARES SEEM HAVE DISAPPEARED. 

JUST LIKE DREAMS, YOU MIGHT SAY. 

Indeed, it was not long before such language was used to me, and I well remember how my views of right and wrong were shaken by it. Another girl at the School, from a place above Montreal, called the Lac, told me the following story of what had occurred recently in that vicinity. A young squaw, called la Belle Marie, (pretty Mary,) had been seen going to confession at the house of the priest, who lived a little out of the village. La Belle Marie was afterwards missed, and her murdered body was found in the river. A knife was also found covered with blood, bearing the priest's name. Great indignation was excited among the Indians, and the priest immediately absconded, and was never heard from again. A note was found on his table addressed to him, telling him to fly if he was guilty.

“HOW ARE YOU FEELING?” SHE SAYS.

“GREAT,” I SAY.  “I’M FEELING GREAT.” 

“WHAT’S ON YOUR MIND?” SHE SAYS. 

“IT’S DIFFICULT FOR ME TO SAY.” 

“IT’S OK, RAZOR.  YOU CAN TELL ME ANYTHING.” 

“OK, I’LL TELL YOU.  BUT FIRST I HAVE TO MAKE SURE YOU REALISE THAT WHAT I’M ABOUT TO TELL YOU ISN’T IMPORTANT.” 

SHE EYES ME, PLAYFULLY.  “ARE YOU SURE IT’S NOT IMPORTANT?” SHE SAYS. 

“MAYBE ON ONE LEVEL,” I SAY, “BUT ON ANOTHER LEVEL, IT’S IRRELEVANT.  MEANINGLESS.” 

It was supposed that the priest was fearful that his conduct might be betrayed by this young female; and he undertook to clear himself by killing her.

“WHAT IS IT?”  SHE SAYS. 

“THE BEAST,” I SAY.  “THAT’S WHAT THEY CALL IT, ISN’T IT?  “THE BEAST WITH TWO BACKS”?   I’M FEELING BETTER ABOUT IT.  I FEEL LIKE I CAN MAYBE TRY DOING IT AGAIN.” 

SHE SMILES.  “THAT’S REALLY THINGY,” SHE SAYS.  SHE LOOKS LIKE SHE MEANS IT, TOO. 

“AND IT’S ALL THANKS TO YOU,” I TELL HER.  “WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT…” 

“IT’S OK,” SHE SAYS.  “IT’S OK.” 

I HOLD HER CLOSE. 

I HOPE SHE UNDERSTANDS WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT.  WE’RE FRIENDS.  BEST FRIENDS.  SOME EXCHANGES IN LIFE ARE MORE INTIMATE. 

IT ISN’T IMPORTANT. 

IT’S MEANINGLESS. 

THIS IS WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT. 

RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW.  

I WANT TO FREEZE-FRAME FOR A LIFETIME.