The Outcast by Sadie Jones, a Critical Analysis
THE OUTCAST
Sadie Jones
He put his hand onto the cold glass pane. He felt far away from himself. He imagined putting his fist through it and the jagged hole in the pane and the points of the glass still attached to the wood. He imagined dragging his wrist and his arm against them so they would cut into him. He didn’t think he would feel it. He pictured putting his face through the glass and wondered if he would feel all the pieces cut him.
He closed his eyes to stop imagining it, but it was the same, picturing the glass going into him, needing to do it. His heart started going quickly, pushing the cold blood around. He turned from the window. He realised he’d been scraping his arm with his other hand and stopped doing it.
There was a sudden stillness like the gap between ticks on a clock, but the next tick never coming.
He couldn’t here talking downstairs; they must have been sitting silently. He thought of them sitting opposite one another, staring, not moving.
He went into the bathroom and shut the door and locked it. He stood at the mirror, and looked, and the need to damage himself took over. All he could think of was hurting himself and how to do it. He picked up his father’s razor. It was an old-fashioned one, the kind you open. He opened the razor and looked at the blade. He knew he wouldn’t feel it if her were to stick it right into himself – but the sight of the blade stopped him for a second. It had a power about it, the strength of the forbidden, and it was fascinating. It was beautiful.
His hand rested on the basin, holding the razor and he waited. He felt cool and curious, like he could do anything and it didn’t matter. He held up his left arm and pushed up the sleeve with his hand holding the razor. He pressed the blade against his skin and immediately, just as the feel of the sharp blade on his skin, his heart went quicker and blood came back into him. He was breathless with wanting to do it. He could taste the need to hurt himself in his
Sadie Jones
He put his hand onto the cold glass pane. He felt far away from himself. He imagined putting his fist through it and the jagged hole in the pane and the points of the glass still attached to the wood. He imagined dragging his wrist and his arm against them so they would cut into him. He didn’t think he would feel it. He pictured putting his face through the glass and wondered if he would feel all the pieces cut him.
He closed his eyes to stop imagining it, but it was the same, picturing the glass going into him, needing to do it. His heart started going quickly, pushing the cold blood around. He turned from the window. He realised he’d been scraping his arm with his other hand and stopped doing it.
There was a sudden stillness like the gap between ticks on a clock, but the next tick never coming.
He couldn’t here talking downstairs; they must have been sitting silently. He thought of them sitting opposite one another, staring, not moving.
He went into the bathroom and shut the door and locked it. He stood at the mirror, and looked, and the need to damage himself took over. All he could think of was hurting himself and how to do it. He picked up his father’s razor. It was an old-fashioned one, the kind you open. He opened the razor and looked at the blade. He knew he wouldn’t feel it if her were to stick it right into himself – but the sight of the blade stopped him for a second. It had a power about it, the strength of the forbidden, and it was fascinating. It was beautiful.
His hand rested on the basin, holding the razor and he waited. He felt cool and curious, like he could do anything and it didn’t matter. He held up his left arm and pushed up the sleeve with his hand holding the razor. He pressed the blade against his skin and immediately, just as the feel of the sharp blade on his skin, his heart went quicker and blood came back into him. He was breathless with wanting to do it. He could taste the need to hurt himself in his