Every time I see myself in the mirror, I'm shocked by the reflection. Most people who feel this way are surprised because they forgot something about themselves. They forgot that they were ugly or fat or old or that same damned cowlick. I was shocked I had a reflection at all. Could I really exist and not affect anyone around me? I was a joke on the tree falling in the middle of the forest. If a girl lives alone in the middle of an urban wasteland and no one's around to know or love or see her, does she still have a face?
"You're missing the best part."
That was Sam. She'd moved in after Marla left. I needed someone to help pay rent so she got a job downstairs. She also bought food. I think that if she didn't I would have just slowly rotted away. I barely remember to eat food; how could I remember to buy it, too? She still woke me up at about two thirty every Friday to watch old movies on her projector, perpetuating the nightmare of her first visit with her insomnia, leaving me drained of my own existence so full and demanding was her own.
I ignored her, focusing once again on that age-old philosophical question. Yes, I did have a face, but it wasn't such a pleasant one. I looked hollow. I had Marla's dark hair and eyes and blue white skin, unique, a picturesque piece of gothic daydreams, spoiled to pulpy gray matter by my father's penguin nose and thin, angry lips. I was moth-like with a forgettable plain face, but I was still there, and I had a creeping suspicion that it had something to do with my houseguest.
I clicked off the light in the bathroom before I left. Didn't want to waste the electricity. That stuff cost money.
Sam had taken to invading other things besides my home. Sh ewould park herself across the hall from me at lunchtime, continually going on again about one of her plans, her plans to join the circus or the mafia, or start a cult or something... to become smashing rock star crime fighting babes.
"I'm not a babe. I have no intention of becoming a babe."
"Are you even listening? We could really help people. We could be fucking superheroes!"
She was always doing that. She couldn't see life for what it really was. I sighed painfully, a common form of exhaustion those days that went unheeded. Meanwhile that same creepy janitor was staring at me from just outside the school's side door.
"Shit."
"What?
"Nothing."
He had been fired a week before. Apparently he'd gotten in a fight with the school's principal... and hurt him pretty bad. I took no notice of the affair or any other student and teacher gossip. But with his cold eyes staring at me with animal excitement, I couldn't help recalling the information and being frightened by it. When he was sure he had gotten my attention (Sam's too, unfortunately), he opened the door and dropped a little slip of paper in. He smiled and limped down the steps outside.
"What was that?"
"Hmmm?"
"Didn't you see that? He dropped you a note."
"No."
But Sam was already going to pick it up. She was never afraid of anything. Her courage was both naïve and admirable. She read the scrap.
"Whoa. Check this out."
It was a soiled, crinkled bit of paper with words written in a hurried hand.
Fight Club 6687 West Ave Friday 10
"You know what it means?"
"No."
"Let's go."
"No."
Sam looked angry and disappointed in me.
"Come on... why not?"
"Fight Club?"
"You're just scared."
Was she really trying to use some childish trick to entreat me to come?
"I mean it. You are so fucking proud of being able to take care of yourself but you've never been in a fight."
I scowled and opened my mouth to speak but she interrupted me.
"Oh its so obvious. You're pale. You're brittle. You don't eat enough so you bruise easily. How could you fight?"
"Why would I want to?"
I found myself intrigued by her anger despite myself.
"Because... what do you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight.
"You're missing the best part."
That was Sam. She'd moved in after Marla left. I needed someone to help pay rent so she got a job downstairs. She also bought food. I think that if she didn't I would have just slowly rotted away. I barely remember to eat food; how could I remember to buy it, too? She still woke me up at about two thirty every Friday to watch old movies on her projector, perpetuating the nightmare of her first visit with her insomnia, leaving me drained of my own existence so full and demanding was her own.
I ignored her, focusing once again on that age-old philosophical question. Yes, I did have a face, but it wasn't such a pleasant one. I looked hollow. I had Marla's dark hair and eyes and blue white skin, unique, a picturesque piece of gothic daydreams, spoiled to pulpy gray matter by my father's penguin nose and thin, angry lips. I was moth-like with a forgettable plain face, but I was still there, and I had a creeping suspicion that it had something to do with my houseguest.
I clicked off the light in the bathroom before I left. Didn't want to waste the electricity. That stuff cost money.
Sam had taken to invading other things besides my home. Sh ewould park herself across the hall from me at lunchtime, continually going on again about one of her plans, her plans to join the circus or the mafia, or start a cult or something... to become smashing rock star crime fighting babes.
"I'm not a babe. I have no intention of becoming a babe."
"Are you even listening? We could really help people. We could be fucking superheroes!"
She was always doing that. She couldn't see life for what it really was. I sighed painfully, a common form of exhaustion those days that went unheeded. Meanwhile that same creepy janitor was staring at me from just outside the school's side door.
"Shit."
"What?
"Nothing."
He had been fired a week before. Apparently he'd gotten in a fight with the school's principal... and hurt him pretty bad. I took no notice of the affair or any other student and teacher gossip. But with his cold eyes staring at me with animal excitement, I couldn't help recalling the information and being frightened by it. When he was sure he had gotten my attention (Sam's too, unfortunately), he opened the door and dropped a little slip of paper in. He smiled and limped down the steps outside.
"What was that?"
"Hmmm?"
"Didn't you see that? He dropped you a note."
"No."
But Sam was already going to pick it up. She was never afraid of anything. Her courage was both naïve and admirable. She read the scrap.
"Whoa. Check this out."
It was a soiled, crinkled bit of paper with words written in a hurried hand.
Fight Club 6687 West Ave Friday 10
"You know what it means?"
"No."
"Let's go."
"No."
Sam looked angry and disappointed in me.
"Come on... why not?"
"Fight Club?"
"You're just scared."
Was she really trying to use some childish trick to entreat me to come?
"I mean it. You are so fucking proud of being able to take care of yourself but you've never been in a fight."
I scowled and opened my mouth to speak but she interrupted me.
"Oh its so obvious. You're pale. You're brittle. You don't eat enough so you bruise easily. How could you fight?"
"Why would I want to?"
I found myself intrigued by her anger despite myself.
"Because... what do you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight.