How sharks came to town

Standing in front of the cabinet, ahead was my reflection in the mirror, my face foamed up and a razor in my hand.
I hate shaving but it’s a necessary evil.
I hacked away at my face,
probably breaking every shaving rule passed down from a million fathers to a million sons
…shave with the grain
…always use hot water
…the razor must be sharp

I nicked my face and blood dripped, and it dripped and it dripped down my chin and down the plug hole and it wouldn’t stop dripping. It was one of those nicks that just wouldn’t stop bleeding.
The sink was becoming redder. There was knock at the door and pushing a wad of tissue against the wound (for that’s what it was, no longer a nick, a wound, a bleeding wound). I rushed downstairs and opened the door to a group of sharks. They must have smelt the blood and came looking for food.

They all had a crazy look in their eyes. That’s how the sharks came to town.

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