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Authors: Kimberly Fuller
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one, I'll admit, but I still continue to tell myself that it's not
real. I gaze down at my hands apprehensively. They're a little
dirty, but seemingly normal strong hands. My father's hands.
The mirror paints another story, of course.
The mirror is not my friend. The mirror has no friends.
In that dirty fucking mirror, claws scratch
and poke at my fleshless face. I become nothing more than the
Devil's plaything in that mirror.
My lips tighten, my eyes forcing back their
treasonous tears. I yell out like a rabid wild dog, ripping off my
muddy boot with my father's strong hands, wanting nothing more than
to cut them off and forget my life ever existed. With one quick
fling, I chucked my boot at the demonic face, letting it shatter
and reform yet again. The second my boot returns, I repeat the
process. Over and over.
Smash and restore. Smash and restore.
I wasn't sure how long I
kept it up. Time doesn't exactly keep on ticking down here. I threw
my shoe once more. Like a trapped fly in a glass house, I somehow
kept hope that this time would be that magic moment when it all works
out.
When the mirror returned to its form yet
again, I just stood, looking back at my now normal reflection.
“I'd almost rather stare at the monster all
day,” I declare to myself out loud, sadly afraid to admit that it
was more painful to see the boy I used to be than that gruesome
monster.
Just a stupid boy.
23
Mom sat on the corner of
the neatly made bed. I always wondered why she took so much time
and effort to make a bed look perfect when no one would ever see or
care but her. I guess maybe that in itself was the point. Her face
was sullen, her eyes empty and lost. I wasn't sure she was even
aware that I was in the room. She just kept staring at the same
ugly flower patterned wall paper. I followed her gaze as it landed
on a pale yellow cluster of dainty flowers. In the dark they looked
wilted and forgotten, almost sad. I wondered if that was how Mom
was feeling.
I walked quietly to the wooden dresser,
placing her newly filled prescription on the edge next to Dad's
latest bottle of whiskey. I set the small plastic container down
softly along with the four pages of possible side effects that came
with it.
This shit is suppose to
cure you in one way but can kill you in a thousand others? No
wonder doctors make so much money, I
thought bitterly. I hated that she had to take these things. Why
couldn't she just go back to being “Mom” again?
“Uh, I got your pills,
Ma. They're right here when you're ready. Doc says to take them
with food if you can,” I spoke slowly and nervously. It was almost
like talking to a new acquaintance who you knew hated your guts
already. I didn't think Ma hated me, but I did think she hated the
world right now. I couldn't say I blamed her.
Mom didn't make any attempt to move or
acknowledge what I had said. She just continued to stare at those
stupid yellow flowers. I had the urge to go buy a can of paint to
wipe them all away, and give Ma a fresh coat of life so she would
stop this zombie bullshit.
Kids aren't supposed to
see their parents like this, I wanted to
scream at her, but knew it would only fall on deaf ears. If she had
stopped caring about Dad's drinking, I doubted she gave a shit
about how I was feeling.
“Alright, Ma, I'm going to head to Mike's.
Do you need anything before I go?” I asked, knowing full well she
didn't, but felt the need to offer. As I expected, she said
nothing, keeping her focus on the dying flowers.
I nodded my head both in agreement and in
aggravation and walked out the door. I stopped in the hallway
briefly, peering towards the “office”. It was quiet and still, for
now.
I touched my left arm tenderly, still
feeling the tight angry grip against my skin as I glared at the
door.
Keep it up, Old Man, I
swear, I screeched quietly at the empty
door, frustrated that I lacked the ability to say it to his face.
Not like he'd care, especially if he'd had a few too
one, I'll admit, but I still continue to tell myself that it's not
real. I gaze down at my hands apprehensively. They're a little
dirty, but seemingly normal strong hands. My father's hands.
The mirror paints another story, of course.
The mirror is not my friend. The mirror has no friends.
In that dirty fucking mirror, claws scratch
and poke at my fleshless face. I become nothing more than the
Devil's plaything in that mirror.
My lips tighten, my eyes forcing back their
treasonous tears. I yell out like a rabid wild dog, ripping off my
muddy boot with my father's strong hands, wanting nothing more than
to cut them off and forget my life ever existed. With one quick
fling, I chucked my boot at the demonic face, letting it shatter
and reform yet again. The second my boot returns, I repeat the
process. Over and over.
Smash and restore. Smash and restore.
I wasn't sure how long I
kept it up. Time doesn't exactly keep on ticking down here. I threw
my shoe once more. Like a trapped fly in a glass house, I somehow
kept hope that this time would be that magic moment when it all works
out.
When the mirror returned to its form yet
again, I just stood, looking back at my now normal reflection.
“I'd almost rather stare at the monster all
day,” I declare to myself out loud, sadly afraid to admit that it
was more painful to see the boy I used to be than that gruesome
monster.
Just a stupid boy.
23
Mom sat on the corner of
the neatly made bed. I always wondered why she took so much time
and effort to make a bed look perfect when no one would ever see or
care but her. I guess maybe that in itself was the point. Her face
was sullen, her eyes empty and lost. I wasn't sure she was even
aware that I was in the room. She just kept staring at the same
ugly flower patterned wall paper. I followed her gaze as it landed
on a pale yellow cluster of dainty flowers. In the dark they looked
wilted and forgotten, almost sad. I wondered if that was how Mom
was feeling.
I walked quietly to the wooden dresser,
placing her newly filled prescription on the edge next to Dad's
latest bottle of whiskey. I set the small plastic container down
softly along with the four pages of possible side effects that came
with it.
This shit is suppose to
cure you in one way but can kill you in a thousand others? No
wonder doctors make so much money, I
thought bitterly. I hated that she had to take these things. Why
couldn't she just go back to being “Mom” again?
“Uh, I got your pills,
Ma. They're right here when you're ready. Doc says to take them
with food if you can,” I spoke slowly and nervously. It was almost
like talking to a new acquaintance who you knew hated your guts
already. I didn't think Ma hated me, but I did think she hated the
world right now. I couldn't say I blamed her.
Mom didn't make any attempt to move or
acknowledge what I had said. She just continued to stare at those
stupid yellow flowers. I had the urge to go buy a can of paint to
wipe them all away, and give Ma a fresh coat of life so she would
stop this zombie bullshit.
Kids aren't supposed to
see their parents like this, I wanted to
scream at her, but knew it would only fall on deaf ears. If she had
stopped caring about Dad's drinking, I doubted she gave a shit
about how I was feeling.
“Alright, Ma, I'm going to head to Mike's.
Do you need anything before I go?” I asked, knowing full well she
didn't, but felt the need to offer. As I expected, she said
nothing, keeping her focus on the dying flowers.
I nodded my head both in agreement and in
aggravation and walked out the door. I stopped in the hallway
briefly, peering towards the “office”. It was quiet and still, for
now.
I touched my left arm tenderly, still
feeling the tight angry grip against my skin as I glared at the
door.
Keep it up, Old Man, I
swear, I screeched quietly at the empty
door, frustrated that I lacked the ability to say it to his face.
Not like he'd care, especially if he'd had a few too
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