The Man in the Mirror (fiction)

He sits in his plush chair, alone in the living room in front of the screen. A game is on, but the sound is down so the music blaring in the room can be felt, not heard. On the table in front of him sits an uncapped bottle of whiskey next to an empty glass with amber droplets in its bottom. He sits back, his vision too blurred to make out the score of the game. He rubs his eyes and lets out a huge sigh.

Eventually, he leans forward and picks the pistol off the table with his right hand. He studies its black sleek body for a moment, twisting it left and right. Deftly, he releases the magazine with the press of his thumb and a flick of his wrist, catching the clip in his left palm. Examining the mag he sees several 9mm copperheads neatly packed in line and sets it aside.

He pours another shot of whiskey in the glass then tosses the warm honey down his throat and returns the glass to its place. With his now free hand he racks the pistol’s slide, ejecting a bullet from the chamber. It falls to the tile floor with a clatter. He traps it under his bare foot.

He rests the gun on the table and picks up the bullet. He holds it close to his face to try and make out its detail through blurry eyes as he twists it between his fingers. Satisfied, he takes back up the magazine and skillfully adds the bullet to the line of those already there. With surprising skill and speed he slams the magazine home in the pistol’s butt, racks the slide and reloads the chamber.

After one more song on the stereo he gets up and walks to the bathroom, pistol in hand. Standing shirtless in front of the mirror he doesn’t recognize the old man looking back at him. With a huge exhale he starts to cry.

He feels the pains and bruises given him by his mother as a child.

He feels the alienation from being bullied by kids in grade school.

He feels the helplessness from the death of a friend by suicide.

He feels the loss from having to put his favorite dog to sleep.

He feels the disgust for his supervisors at work.

He feels the fear of losing his house if the landlord raises the rent next month.

He feels the anger from being cheated on by his girlfriend, another promising relationship ending in heartbreak.

He feels the trappings of debts still to be repaid.

He feels the distrust of business executives and politicians he sees in the news.

He feels the doubts of a future out of his control.

Tears stream down his face. Looking the man in the mirror dead in the eyes neither is going to lose the stare down. His face turns flush red, his eyes focus, steeled, and his lips pierce. His blood begins to boil. His eyes widen. Agitated, he starts to swear while staring down the man in the mirror.

“Fucker.”

“Motherfucker.”

He leans forward leaning on his hands on the sink in front of him.

“Piece of shit.”

“Come on, you pussy. Fuck you.”

He stands up tall again, and raises the pistol straight up in the air.

“FUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKK YOOOOOUUUUU!” He screams hysterically at the man in the mirror.

As he stands there, the man in the mirror’s eyes relax breaking the blinking duel. With a soft smile, the gratification of winning, he turns his wrist aiming the pistol at his temple and pulls the trigger.

In an instant, the firing pin releases, the small explosion is contained. The bullet flies forward while the slide recoils ejecting the hot copper casing and reloading another bullet for the next shot if it’s needed. The bullet exits the barrel, rips into his right temple and out the other side, spraying bits of bone and flesh, brains and blood in its wake on the bathroom wall. His body lurches off balance, and as he falls his neck slams on the side of the bathtub, cracking it. His body comes to rest on the bathroom floor.

Stillness.

Silence..

Peace…

Rest…..

Quiet…..

Too quiet. The music has stopped. Not even the sound of the refrigerator, the air conditioner or the ceiling fan can be heard. The power must be out.

He sits in his plush chair, alone at home in front of a dark screen. His heart is racing, thumping, exploding out of his body. His body is drenched in sweat. His eyes pop open wide with fear, but the bright sunlight filling the room is too much so he closes them again quickly. His head is pounding in sync with his heart, each beat hurts his brain. His neck badly stiff and sore from the position it held through the night.

Holy shit! What just happened? Am I alive? he thinks to himself.

Scared, he slowly starts to sit up and orient himself. He wipes the crust from his eyes. Shading his eyes from the sun he slowly opens them. On the table in front of him sits an uncapped bottle of whiskey next to an empty glass with amber droplets in its bottom. Repulsed by the smell and the thought of drinking he pushes it away. Next to the empty glass sits his phone. There never was a gun.

As he looks around the room, his breathing slowly calms. Everything is in its place. The more his head and heart pound, the more he realizes other bodily needs – a trip to the bathroom, a glass of water for the dry mouth, a handful of Advil for the headache. He slowly pushes himself to stand. His head starts pounding harder, his balance shaky. Straightening up he feels a shooting pain in his neck from sleeping in an awkward position. Finally, he walks to the kitchen for a glass of water.

After a second glass he heads to the bathroom. Standing shirtless in front of the mirror he recognizes the disheveled thirty-something man wearing shorts looking back at him. He fishes out the Advil. He fills another glass of water then washes the pills down his throat. He steps to the toilet to pee. Leaning with one hand against the wall while he goes, he closes his eyes. Everything hurts. Bad.

When finished, he returns to the bathroom sink to wash his hands. He splashes water on his face and hair, combing it away from his face with his fingers. His heart is still pounding, but not racing as much. His eyes are coming better into focus. He leans his head side to side to try and stretch out his neck. With a big sigh he looks up at the man in the mirror. The man returns a gaze with a tiny flicker of light in his eyes. They both know that something is different this morning.

The dream felt real – the anger, the pain, the fear. He wonders how much he had to drink that caused it. The idea of drinking whiskey now almost makes him vomit. He feels he ought to be dead. His head and his heart tell him he died – or should have died – last night. He dodged a bullet; a liquid one that comes with drinking enough to poison the body.

He feels a stirring inside him, a realization that he feels separate from yesterdays past, even reborn and given a second chance. His eyes widen and his heart starts to race again, which doesn’t help the pounding in his head. Despite the pain, he starts to feel thankful to still be alive. His eyes well up with happy tears. He kneels on the floor then sits back against the bathtub and lowers his head. Wrapping his arms around his knees in a bear hug, he prays and rests.

After an eternity on the floor he starts to feel hope for his future. Ideas about a new job, gatherings with friends, and even a new girl friend flutter into his mind. He starts to list people and other blessings in his life that he’s grateful for. Thoughts of taking control of his life and establishing an active and social daily routine lift his spirits. His headache is subsiding and his vision more focused.

With the power still out and the house silent, he can hear the birds outside. He gets up and walks back into the living room, better able to handle the sunbeams now. With a soft smile he opens the windows to let in the fresh air, the sun’s warmth and the birdsong. He fills a bottle with water, picks his sunglasses and phone off the table and heads out to sit on the front step.

Sitting in the sun he looks around, appreciating the beauty in the landscape around him. He can hear the faint roar of the ocean off in the distance. He acknowledges that if he had died he would miss this scene. He looks at his phone. He missed two calls and several texts from friends over night. He doesn’t remember sending texts last night, but they are in response to messages he sent in his drunken stupor. The most recent one says, “I love you. Call me”. It’s from a former fraternity brother. He realizes he has friends who care, and he feels blessed. Grateful.

A seagull squawking overhead gets his attention. He looks at his surfboard resting on the porch but decides to leave it. With anticipation he stands up and walks down the steps to the street and the beach. A walk in the surf and salty air always helps him clear his head. He remembers sunset walks there with his dog playing in the wave wash. Those were happy times.

I’m lucky I have a chance to see this again, he thinks to himself. My past is eating me up. I need to let it go and make new happy memories one little moment at a time.

With a touch of hope and lots of resolve he walks knee deep into the saltwater. He bends over with both hands and splashes the sea over his head and face. Tasting the salt on his lips he lets out a huge exhale. He feels at home here.

“Time to start over,” he says to the sea. With the ocean’s energy pulsing through him with each wave, he turns and walks up the coast knowing he can.