The White Wall

It took me a while to recognize this.

I see a white wall in front of me. The wall stretches indefinately in all directions. It is utterly clean, the way a perfectly cleaned white tile can be. But the wall doesn't glisten. it is simply a very clean white wall without blemishes. The wall is bathed in white light as am I.

I sit in front of the wall but it's not clear what I am sitting upon. I believe it is a section of the wall that stretches out from below. I am unable to see anything underneath me. The surface upon which I sit upon must simply bend out from the wall. It is an incline that slopes gently toward the wall. I don't look to either side or above. My gaze is fixated upon the wall in front of me. I hear Mozart's string quintents playing vaguely in the background.

Set into the wall slightly below me are two niches. Each seem to be part of the wall. In other words, they are seamless, all curves and no sharp angles.

In the first niche there is a singe red rose sitting in a clear vase made of crystal. The rose stem is approximately a foot long. The vase is high enough to accommodate the stem so that only several inches of it extend up to the actual rose itself. The rose is perfect and beautiful.

The second niche is set into the wall to the right of that containing the rose. It is the size of the rose's niche. Sitting in it is a single razor plated with chrome. The razor is not completely covered in chrome. A very small part of the steel blade beneath is exposed for cutting purposes.

My ears begin to ring. I am suddenly aware that the rose needs blood to survive. Only thick, red blood will keep it beautiful and perfect. Time stands still.

I lean forward to carefully reach for the razor, cautious to not stain the wall, or the niche within, with the oil from my skin. I want to touch the rose but refrain, glorying in its light sweet odor, instead. The razor fits perfectly in my right hand. It is precisely the size of an ordinary razor. It gleams in the bright light that surrounds me. Mozart's quintets become louder and drown out the ringing in my ears.

I prepare to cut. I choose my left underarm because it will be easier to reach with my right hand. It will also allow me to make my cuts exactly. The rose will not tolerate anything but perfection. I decide to make ten cuts, evenly spaced apart. The first cut will be at my wrist and the others will proceed up my arm in one-half inch increments. This plan is best because the blood from the first and subsequent cuts will not obscure the remaining cuts.

It is important to ensure that the cuts are not too deep nor too close to the vein that runs down under my left arm. An error could cause death, in which case the rose would not survive.

Calm settles upon me. The music is now louder and the wall brighter. I hold out my left arm out and make a loose fist. I hold the razor in my right hand. Methodically, neither fast nor slow, I begin the cuts. Blood drips from the first cut and falls gently to the floor in front of me. It does not splatter. It hits the floor slowly, forming a small bead which rolls slowly toward the rose, leaving only a trace behind it. Each cut reacts the same, until a stream of blood is flowing towards the rose.

When the last cut is finished I settle into a quiet state of ecstasy. All I hear are the quintets playing softly in the background. All I smell is the sweet odor of blood. All I see is the glistening of the wall in front of me. All I feel is the simple sting of the cuts from which my blood flows. I float in this state while the rose is fed.

Alas, the wounds begin to clot and the blood ceases to flow. But I am satisfied that the red rose has been fed. My task is complete. The rose glows ever the more brightly in the white wall.

I was unfortunately prevented from fulfilling my task. I was able to make the first two cuts near to my wrist when someone interceded and made me stop. I was whisked to the emergency room where the attending physician considered this a suicide attempt and promptly declared me as a 5150. This shortly led to my incarceration in a psychiatric ward.