John Constantine stood before a mirror. His hated of all enemies. The mirror didn't lie, or bend the truth. It had no concept of politeness. It told him flat out: You look like shit. Like today the mirror told him that a night of too much Vodka will make you look like the living dead. "Yeah, you'd look like hell too if you just stopped the world from ending." He spat. Saving the naïve world's fate will also give you zombie-like qualities. John leaned closer into the reflection. The mirror told him just how pathetic and worn he looked. It told him that his life was dwindling down. It reminded him that he was alone. It reminded him that he was tired. Tired of it all. Upon closer inspection the mirror told him that he was wearing his clothes. In his haste to fall onto something soft the night before, he hadn't bothered to remove any of the day's clothes. He felt like shit. And looked like it. And the mirror held no mercy.
His hand reached into his pocket and withdrew what he had left. He selected one and held it up. With another glare to his reflection, he put it in his mouth. And chewed like crazy. His eyes wandered knowingly to the trashcan next to the sink. Empty boxes of comfort. He popped in another piece of gum. And another. Soon the whole packet and box were empty and he was throwing those away. The word 'overdose' swam through his mind, but he dismissed it just as quickly. He was too paranoid, as it was, he didn't want to have to worry about what 20 pieces of nicotine gum could do at one sitting.
"You're a work of art you know that." He pointed at the mirror. "Piece of shit." He sighed. "You'd think I'd be more rewarded for saving…things." He tried to shake off the dizziness setting in. He wavered on his feet. "Fuck." He caught himself on the sink before he fell. He turned on the faucet, plugging the bottom, and dunked his face in the cooling water. The clock ticked idly on the wall. He rose gasping for breath, realizing the he almost fell asleep in the water. "Smooth move John." He scolded the mirror. He grabbed a towel and stumbled out of the bathroom, leaving the door wide open.
He wandered into the kitchen and fished around in the cabinets, tossing aside anything second rate. There. Top shelf. Clear bottle. He held it in his hands then up to his forehead. Oh so smooth and cooling. John clutched the bottle and stammered back into his bedroom.
He sat on the corner of his bed. "Well if the cigarettes didn't kill me, maybe alcohol will." He snapped off the top. "And you don't say a word." He scowled at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. "This is the least I deserve." He brought the bottle to his lips and leaned far back, devouring the contents. He sputtered upright and coughed. "Shit burns." He wheezed. "Everything burns." He said absently and hung his head. The past few days seemed more like a nightmare than reality. But nowadays, most things did. No matter which was he sliced it, he knew he was falling. Falling hard and fast. And this last day of 'salvation', did little to boost his morale.
John felt himself slipping into another oblivion. He held his head up for a moment and looked across the room into the mirror. "And when I wake up again, I don't want to hear a word from you." His vision crossed and John Constantine fell back into nirvana.
More to come? Let me know.