The mirror showed me a man, youngish, horn rimmed, bristled and bruised. The eye barely opened, purple and blue, I stared at me. The whiskey grated on my breath, my head and my ever suffering mother’s rant berated at me in turns, my lip split my smirk, my shrug was abashed as I stared at myself in the mirror.
The light beeped incessant on my machine to another end to another wasted relationship, my ever suffering mother would nag me non stop about my carelessness, my aimlessness and my general lack in everything and of nothing but then my ever suffering mother had died as she lived, ever suffering after a long drawn out diseased, cancerous battle, she died. No more rants. No more nagging. No more taunting.
The voice on the machine broke off into sobs and regrets. I still stared at myself even as the voice died on the machine and the only sound that remained was my breaths. The memory of last night, the smoke, the fists, the glass, the yells was still as vivid as the night before that and every night since then.
I clenched and unclenched my fists. The mirror fogged up white, so thick so inscrutable, my features fogged up and the calm set in as inscrutable as the mirror, my face went calm with it. I could hear every breath as it were the first. I stared at myself.
Every day I woke up angry. Every day ended angry. Every day was angry; inexplicable, enormous anger set in as I met the world. The world was vicious in its persistence, it beat back at me, it prodded and pushed, it shoved its presence at me every day every night.
The mirror still fogged up and the calm was still impregnable. I was limp, every bit of me with calm. My hand did not shake, did not quiver even with the slightest bit of feeling. Could it be at the same time, I be devoid of feeling and completely overwhelmed with it. The generic white clashed most horribly with the generic red, I smiled to myself and stared at myself and waited to remember it all.


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