The Man in the Mirror

It was that mirror. Every morning I would wake up, have breakfast, shower under that ice frozen water (brrr!), brush my teeth, only the edges, nice and soft, comb my hair, or whatever still remained of it along my barren hilltop, get dressed into one of those many equally monotonous, stained suits (suits are expensive, you know); knot a hangman’s in my tie, tie my shoes with a blood knot, circle that old cot and tear those old blinds open, coloring the brown room with a light much diseased.

It was that mirror. It sighed, sickly. It was ill. It must have been. I would finally stroll, forcibly, out, hop on my scrapped, groaning abomination… car and rev the gas pedal a couple of times, waiting for that right engine movement… thing… grip feel. The radio had broken some time ago for whatever reason… as the desperate fingers gripped out from… and it just had this constant smell of burnt rubber coming from the inside. I never really AAAAAAAAH AHHHHHHH AHHHHHHHHH… bothered with it anyway. I would back out the driveway and step out of the car, to pull that garage gate down… down. It needed to be oiled again that damn good for nothing piece of. I drive, drive, drove, driven would dive down the road and under the hill and beneath the bridge to get underneath worrrk—k… kkk... kk. I would check in and sit behind that nice smelling wooden mahogany desk, yes, desk, yes. I smile at people. And then get back down. Resume the. Melting, scorching… paperwork. Papers. So many of these little letters everywhere. It’s funny, how they seemed to come together, hand-in-hand, in these neat lines. Like an army about to go to war. Facing each other, guns blazing, eyes filled with fear and bloodlust, ready for the siren that ordered them to go off ahead and. I would full-fill checkboxes and fill in boxes and silly description lines and signature lines and client names lines and boxes addresses lines and phone numbers lines and boxes lines, oh yes the boxes. Tight boxes I would check out and I go home. Home with box. Boss told me to take all in box.

It was that mirror. I would arrive home and leave my suitcase over there by the reclining sofa with the loose spring on the side, get into some pajamas, slipped into some slippery slippers and dropped by the one box that show me the shadow of a man screaming as it rose through the corner of the room, high above in the ceiling, as the fire around him reached the… TV to watch some game shows and eat some chips, I love chips, I really do. Those lemon restaurant sized packs with all the natural garbage taste the best. I would go to the bathroom and scratch my teeth clean. And there he would be, still. Be there is still. Why wouldn’t he leave? I always went to work. Why would he still be there, be there, every time I came back. Leave. Leave. LEAVE MY HOUSE. I would stare in panic and flee back to the bedroom, RUN, reach under the bed and pull the old shoe box. Yes… this should do the trick! Those shoes were incredible! I remember running a marathon five years ago in them, finished the last stretch like a pro! I marched down to the bathroom with the gun and, GWRAAAAAAAAHH HAAAAAGGGRR WRAAAAAAAAAHH OH GOD NO HELP ME NO STOP IT aiming my father’s old revolver, I stared. He was there, I swear, he was, he was, DAMN YOU!! I shot him. I shot the man. The man behind the mirror. BOX JAW YES, YES, MELTING WORLD IN FLAMES… Reached. Reached behind the right end of the mirror. I shot him. I shot the man in the mirror.