"Looking Glass"

Years Ago

It won't be long now. Soon she'll burst through the door, stomping and seething across the room. If she shares any genes with me, any at all, she'll be emotional. She'll scream and shout, call me names and maybe even degrade me. And I don't blame her, I get it. She doesn't know, doesn't need to know. Her life was so much better living in that fucking school, getting to stay away from her and everything she's done. She won't understand, but I will. And that's what matters here. Yeah, it shouldn't be long.

A car passes by in the street below, old headlights shining through the dirty window for all of a moment, but it's enough to see. It's enough to make me look up from the bottle in my hand. It's enough to pull my focus from the cloud of cigar smoke coming from the old wood tip stuck in my teeth. Where did I even get this? I pull the cigar away, staring at the burning ember. The glowing red and orange leaving a trail as I wave it around in the darkness. Everything I just saw finally clicks, finally processes in my sluggish mind. While the light has long left the room, the sun having set and the only lamp sitting across the dirty carpet in more pieces than I can comprehend, I still see the things around me in the dark. The flashes from the cars driving by telling me what I need to know.

The lamp that was smashed, the broken chairs and the flipped tables, the busted doors, and the torn wallpaper. Everything from the destroyed television to the holes in the wall. It looks like a tornado had hit the small apartment, everything tossed and turned. And I know this because I did it. I was alone, I was angry, and I don't know what else. What I do know is that everything in here made me angry, it all made me furious, enraged and disgusted. It had to be done. Maybe that's when I found the cigar, during the rampage. Or maybe I found it after I gave up; after I pushed the ratty old armchair in front of the door and collapsed into it. I pull my eyes away from the glowing dot in the darkness and look at the window, at the faint light pouring in from below, illuminating the dirty ceiling. And the rain coming down, tapping against the window. The only sound the soft pat of the rain against the glass mixing with my breathing. It'll happen soon.

Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles in the dark sky outside. I see myself in the flash, the split second of light showing me to myself; slouched down in the armchair, one arm dangling over the armrest and the other still tracing circles with the dying ember. I put the flavored wood to my lips and take a deep drag, pulling the thick smoke in before letting it float away with a slow breath. Another flash, more rumbling and I see the crumpled fabric near the door. The fine black cloth of the dress I was supposed to wear, but I never even unbuttoned my dirty jeans. The dress sparks my ire, reminds me what it is I'm waiting for. I pull the opened bottle of whiskey over the armrest and ignore the spills from the action, taking a long drink and starting at the dark shape of the dress. I cough after it goes down, somehow not yet numb to it. I take a few deep breaths and stare at the dress, at the commitment I was to keep. Soon, not long now.

"Sorry, but dresses ain't me." I sit up in the chair, taking another drink and looking out the window. "Well, maybe someday. But not today, not now. Besides, it's not like I chose you. You were shoved at me. And Momma ain't the greatest at taking orders."

I think for a moment, struggling to remember anything from before two minutes ago. And there it is, the image of Melanie handing me the dress. She was sullen, sad, and distant. But I get it, her mom died and it was time to get ready for the funeral. Time to get dressed and march to the grave. No, that doesn't sound right. Some part of this isn't right. I remember telling her I need time to get ready, that I'd just take a cab and clear my head. I was sad, or I looked sad, but I didn't feel it. I didn't care. But I still did this, tore this place up. If I didn't care then why? Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. I pushed too far, tried too hard and let it come back. Carly. I forgot she was even there, forgot how she held me close. I had blocked it out. Shoved her away when she tried to calm me down after I started this rampage. I yelled at her, told her terrible things to make her leave. I tried to make her understand that I don't care about Pam dying, that it didn't change anything. But she didn't move, just watched as I tore through this place and more than once I would throw something it would go a bit too close, it would shake her up and she would flinch. I scared her, I yelled at her and I screamed till she left. She didn't deserve it. Then again she doesn't have to deal with me, she comes around of her own free will. I don't know why, and I don't know why she stayed as long as she did. But it was her choice, not mine. I don't need her coming around like that all the time.

I take another drink and look at the hole in the walls and the broken objects everywhere. Who am I kidding? I need her, I need her to be there when I can't deal with it, I need her when everything gets to be too much. I don't just need her there, I want her there. I want her to hold me when I can't take it, I want her to be there. My eyes drift back to the lump of fabric by the door, the last thing I threw after Carly left; after I told her to leave. A mocking reminder of how pathetic I am, how terrible I am. I'm a piece of shit and the dress is the only thing that will say it.

"Well, fuck you too." I act on impulse, letting the bottle fly across the room at the door and shattering into chunks of glass and whiskey. I can only stare at my hand, still outstretched before it falls limply into my lap. "I needed that." But it doesn't move, or rather, I don't move. I sit limply and stare at where the bottle hit the door. Another flash and another rumble as I take another puff from the cigar. Where did this come from? Did I find it when... I almost laugh when I realize I just had that thought. But any smile is short-lived when the doorknob jiggles. Guess I locked it. "I don't want any." There's the sound of keys and the door opening slowly. It happens now.

She comes in with the light from outside shining on her back. Her coat is wet and water drips from her hair as she kicks the wadded dress and broken glass out of the way. The door shuts with a click and I sit silently as she flicks the light switch a few times. She gives up and drops the wet coat to the floor, turning to me. If it were any darker I wouldn't see her face, wouldn't see the hollow look in her eyes. She slowly steps across the room, moving straight past me to where the lamp was. She stops when she hears the crunch of the porcelain below her feet.

"Broke that one too." I toss casually before I puff on the cigar again.

Why did she even smoke these? I always wondered why she switched to these from cigarettes, but it's a little late to ask her now. Footsteps, slow and heavy, exhausted as she stands over me. She pulls the cigar out of my mouth and steps away, towards the small kitchen that never held anything but booze. No food, only liquor. Many nights I would go hungry before simply walking through the city streets just to raid Carly's fridge and curl up in her bed. Shit, I need to tell her sorry, need to make that right. A light flicks on and I limply turn my head and see her standing over the sink, the small overhead light illuminating both rooms.

"I forgot that was there, forgive me for missing it. I'll get it later." She doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge me in any way as she runs the faucet over the cigar and tosses it on the counter. "I'd tell you that we do have a garbage can but..." I drag myself out of the chair with a groan and step back when I realize she had quickly crossed the room and stopped not two feet away. I can see it clearly now, the look in her eyes. It's not empty, exhaustion, it's utter contempt and blatant signs of her just being done. "...I don't know where I put it. So, how was it? Was there anybody but you even there? I mean, I can't think of anyone..." My head snaps to the side, my vision suddenly settled on the dirty carpet with a hefty stinging in my cheek. I blink a few times and look back at her. She's shaking, tears forming in the corners of her eyes and a frown on her lips. Rage bubbles and dies away just as quickly as I look at her. "I guess some of the guys she fucked over the years..." another slap, harder than the last. "...suck that many..." I turn my head just in time to take another hard slap on the cheek.

"Stop." She's shaking more now, the tears still in her eyes as she lowers her hand. "Just stop."

I meet her eyes and ignore the pain in them. I know I should feel something here, feel anger or disgust. Feel guilt or sorrow, but all I want to do is egg her on. I want to push her till she breaks, push her till she snaps. I want to push her off her high horse and into the mud with the rest of the family. I step forward, closing what little gap there is.

"Is that all you can do? A little slap? Is that supposed to make me stop? Because all it's done is show me how delusional you are. Come on, give me another one. Give me your best." I pat my cheek and raise my voice. "Oh, what's wrong? I thought you wanted me to stop? If you want it so bad then make it happen. I mean, unless you want to hear about every single guy she fucked for money in the last five years. Oh, you didn't realize that? How the fuck do you think she..."

The disgust in her eyes, across her face, is very blatant, but it isn't the only thing there. There's something else as well, pity. But it's not at my words, it's at me. It's at how I'm acting. I look down and at her hands, curled into fists. She close, she wants to do it, wants to throw the punch.

I lean in, nose to nose. "I fucking dare you."

But in a flash, it all disappears. In a moment the hate, the anger and the disgust all wash away, her hands relax and she steps back and all that's left is the pity.

"Carly told me you were acting like this. Told me to be careful. I didn't believe her, not at first. She said she was worried. But when I looked at her, she was scared." Her words cut deep, very deep. The mention of Carly, the idea that I scared her. It hurts. "Scared of you. I didn't know that was even possible. And when she told me you weren't coming I brushed it off. I mean, there's no way you would miss your own mother's funeral. You might be cold, but you aren't that cold. But as the service dragged on I realized just how bad it was. How bad you are." She folds her arms and looks through me, not caring what I do or what I say.

"Stop talking." My teeth clench and I inch closer to her, anger bubbling.

"But I see it now. You always said she was terrible, but it wasn't her, it was you. I mean, when I came in here..."

"I said stop." Closer again, and she looks worried, but she doesn't stop.

"When I saw you in her chair, smoking one of her cigars and reeking of her whiskey, I had to look twice." She flinches when I step forward and make a fist.

"Don't say it."

"You looked just like her."

It's a snap movement, made in anger, hatred. I don't have control, don't have the will to stop, and I don't know if I even want to. My hand grabs the front of her dress and the other raises, cocked back and ready. But as scared as she is right now, as terrified as she feels, she keeps going, pushing and prodding and ready to make her point.

"For all the times you told me how terrible it was, for all the bad you act like she did. In the end, you will always be worse."

I'm shaking, I can feel it. The anger and the rage boiling over, but she stopped caring, stopped being afraid. Where before she looked at my hand and shrunk down, now she stands tall, her eyes looking right into me.

"I dare you." Her voice is low and calm, no trace of what had been and I don't see her, not as she is. I see a little girl, finally standing up to the abuse, no matter what happens. A little girl tired of being pushed and hit, tired of being shoved around and talked down do. Everything stops, everything goes numb and I fall back, barely able to stay on my feet.

I don't have words, nothing to say. Even if I did I don't think I would make it past the urge to vomit, the disgust at myself. She looks down at me, ready for anything, except for what happens. I stumble back, barely able to walk, all the alcohol finally hitting me the way it should have. I barely make it to the door and yank it open when she calls out.

"Don't come back. Never come back." The confidence is gone, the strength vanished. Her voice cracks and she's close to tears, I can hear it. And the look she had in her eyes, that look of pity.

But I don't look back as I stumble into the rain. The cold washing over me as I lean over the railing and empty my stomach. Not from the alcohol, not from drinking, but from disgust and hatred of myself. If I had I mirror I would see the thing I hate most in his world, and with her gone, it'll just be my reflection.