Razor's Edge / I

[John Weyland]

Razor’s Edge / I

Previously...

The past spelled out behind me in the long yellow dashes of the centerline. The amber hues of the sun had been replaced by the pitch black of the night. I had become fixated on the road ahead of me--knowing that driving forward was my temporary means of escape.

Right outside Atlanta, I began to crack. I had been on the road for nearly seven hours--the only time spent sitting still was spent pumping gas. Yeah, I began to crack right at about mile five hundred. 

My sister had packed me a ziplock bag full of joints and I had gotten into them. I was pretty blazed. Yeah, blazed and chagrined. I started to crack the moment I realized that nothing was going to be the same again. That “fuck it” sensation sinking into me soon began to take over--I wanted it and I accepted it. Of all the things stolen from me, denial was still firmly holstered in my subconscious.

I wanted to be high. I wanted to be euphoric. Freedom--the only way I could truly find it. 

I dropped my guard.

I cracked.

Breathe expectations.

Exhale frustration and doubt.

Accept inescapable fate.

Before me were the lights of Atlanta burning through the night in the distance. The way the buildings stood framed by the starry black sky above them, made me uncomfortable. The buildings were foreboding in that each light could represent the window of someone living a happier or better life than me. 

I took another toke off that joint and let it set in. As soon as I could pull over-i’d buy cigarettes.

I dwelled on thoughts of the time I wasted living the life of a square. While so many of my teammates partied and did everything you should do at University, I had completed my studies and already gotten into bed. I followed a strict regimen and kept a tight schedule. Yeah I was that Athlete Scholar. I played football at every level.

I wasn’t going to stop. I wanted to play at the pro level. I wasn’t just dreaming it--I was living it. That reality was stolen from me. Shame on me for being a team player. Shame on me for condoning what went on around me. I took no part in it, but I didn’t condemn it. My guilt was my team’s guilt and ultimately, as most football teams do, we lost as a team. 

God damned the team player.

I lost my mind.

This damaged veneer.

Small pieces breaking away.

Revealing my faults.

Yeah, I was thinking about how pointless the life I was running away from was, as I lit up that joint. That night I promised to never pass a piss test again. I could finally leave all that mortality I should have never dabbled in, behind. 

I lost my mind.

How did I feel when I cracked?

Just like I felt every time I threw an interception. It was a tight feeling--a frustrated feeling. It made me grit my teeth and ball up my fists. It was an ugly feeling and I hated it. As I drove down the road though, I took that feeling and I multiplied it by infinity. Maximum fucking doubt.

I heard Dontevius in my head sayin, “Haha look at white privilege bemoan and interception. Don’t worry, we’ll get it back.”

Only I wasn’t getting this one back. I couldn’t come up off of the bench and make things right in the next drive. I had to sit, like a third stringer, and watch the game played without me.

I think “Pink Maggit” by Deftones was playing.

I drove my foot further into the accelerator and the speedometer entered triple digits.

It really wouldn’t have mattered if I jerked the wheel sharply to the right and drove straight into the cement divider. My prized Heavy Chevy would have gone careening off the road and rolled a half dozen times. I wasn’t convinced that the sound of it would even fracture the night air. It wouldn’t matter if it killed me or not. It simply would not matter. 

At that moment the idea that life was completely meaningless appealed to me.

I wasn’t giving up on life as much as it had given up on me. Thoughts of my own death weren’t informing my decisions. There were moments left to be experienced--no matter how fleeting. What commanded me was the sense that it would be my first opportunity to really live. I didn’t feel like I had done enough things for myself. I hadn’t been looking out for my own personal interests.

The only way I could get rid of the ugly and tight feeling was to start making my own decisions.

I looked over at the pistol sitting in the passenger seat. It had been out for the last two hundred miles. I can’t remember if I had pulled the pistol out of the glovebox or if it had climbed out on its own. I glanced at it occasionally and thought about what it really represented.

Power and control.

Wielding a god-like will.

Fated by hot lead.

I cracked. I knew that anything could happen and I simply didn’t have any control over it. I could miss everything and it wouldn’t matter. I laughed when I thought about wrestling. I knew I would be miserable at it. I knew it didn’t matter. 

It made me laugh, the idea that I was facing someone with the name Razor Blade. Hilarious. I was at the very precipice of the razor’s edge and I have to step into the ring with a man who chose the name for himself. A fool. A damn fool, yet he represented the title for this chapter in my life.

He didn’t matter and neither did I. Our match didn’t even matter.

Just like it didn’t matter that my family had completely turned their backs on me. Yeah. It happened what seemed like mere moments after all the coaches went home or to jail. 

Nothing mattered.

I had a head full of plays that I’d never use again. A head full of an unfinished education.

I reached out for the pistol and pulled it up. The Chev roared as the speedometer needle buried past one twenty. The gun felt heavy in my hand, but i liked the weight. I pulled the hammer back and laced my finger through the trigger guard. At that moment, everything was out of control. I knew one good bump and I’d likely discharge the pistol.

I’m pretty sure “Change--In the house of Flies” by Deftones was playing. I used the nose of the Magnum in my hand to roll the volume knob. The music was blasting and I just didn’t care. I wouldn’t need my hearing where I was going so my last song had to be a good one.

I cracked and I gave up.

What is existence?

With or without consciousness.

What can I become?

My eyes passed from the road blurring ahead of me and the gun. At that moment I was completely out of control. I had reached that moment where I finally felt free. Or at least I thought--as close as I would ever get to a semblance of freedom. Logic would have dictated putting the gun down and slowing the car down. 

Everything I was brought up to believe in and accomplish were finally and completely contradicted.

I felt like I could finally let go.

I had met my razor’s edge.