The Man In The Mirror

Ever since he was a little boy, he’d been observing the man in the mirror who’d mirror all his movements. He was fascinated by it in the stage of infancy, attracted to it in adolescence and discussed philosophy with him in the adult stage of his life.

He still remembers the first time he stood in front of the man in the mirror before his first football game. He’d preached words of courage and motivation, the man; pumped up the little kid with determination. When he scored 98.2% in his final year, the man in the mirror toasted to him and cried tears of joy with him.

When he finally found the woman he wanted to marry, the man in the mirror flipped out with joy. When he landed his first paycheck, the man in the mirror rejoiced as if it were him who got the paycheck. The man in the mirror witnessed the boy’s first kiss and never had he been more proud of his steps.

The man in the mirror didn’t come with holy intentions.

When the boy was having a hard time, the man in the mirror inspired him to indulge in intoxication. When he was fighting with his girlfriend, the voice of the man in the mirror screamed in his brains, asking him to beat the shit out of her. When he beat her up in front of the man in the mirror, he cheered for the boy. When he first killed a man in front of the man in the mirror, he felt as if he’d made his father proud. The night when he slashed his own wrists at the request of the man in the mirror, was the night when the man in the mirror won. He’d played all the right cards. He’d made the perfect demon out of a kid who was so good, he could serve as an agent of peace. He’d corrupted something so pure, so young that even Lucifer would be afraid of him. He’d succeeded at spreading death and terror in this world.

And the boy? He loved the man in the mirror. He owed so much to him. He’d been there throughout his life. As a little boy, the man in the mirror would just mirror his movements. As he grew older, the man in the mirror started speaking to him. They clicked real soon and the lonely, scrawny kid now had a friend who looked exactly like him. He’d tell the man in the mirror everything. He’d lay his soul bare and ask for guidance and cousel from the man in  the mirror. He’d always been an obedient boy. The man in the mirror showed him the path to salvation. He did his very best to attain salvation. He obeyed every order the was conveyed to him by the man in the mirror. He’d achieved what every human being only dreamt of achieving. Eternal salvation. He closed his eyes and let his soul get let rip into shreds as this song played in the background. He was finally found peace.

“Satanic verses,

It’s the tales of the evil,

We’ll never have for a victim.”

The Tortured Artist.

Out of all the mentality distorted and beautifully twisted minds that exist in this planet we so affectionately call the Earth, there lived a speck in this pool of immensely talented yet insanely distorted human beings, so to speak.
This speck didn’t have a name. This speck had an interesting past, though. You see, people always have this premonition that an artist’s past is so dark, it would put Edgar Allan Poe to shame. Their state of mind so fragile, it might shatter at the slightest hint of negative criticism. Their thought processes so distorted, a normal man would shriek out of sheer and utter disbelief. But these premonitions were true and more for this particular person.
She’d lost her parents at an early age, to something the papers called “an unfortunate car accident.” She grew up amongst strangers, physical and mental abuse being the only true constants throughout her childhood, the taste of tears more familiar to her than that of water.
When she went to school, her teachers labeled her as that awkward kid who’s never found without her sketch pad. People made fun of her physical appearance, not knowing that she had to fend for herself in her foster house, not knowing that the only way she ever got food was if she stole from the refrigerator, not knowing that the scars that she tried to hide were either from the several beatings she received from her foster parents or from the several other attempts she made at taking her own life.
When she first fell in love, she hadn’t found a feeling more elating and horrific at the same time. The guy was some senior whose name she doesn’t recall now, but what she will always remember is his voice. That soft voice which would whisper words of affection in her ears, the very same voice which spit words of malice at her after he’d grown bored of her. She remembered how lovely his smile was, the very same, crooked smile he had stuck on his face when he hit her for not obeying him. She couldn’t live with him. But she couldn’t possibly exist without him. And when he left, that was the moment she really grew up. She grew to hate the feeling of being in love.
So she escaped to her reality, spending hours mindlessly doodling on her sketchpad. This was a place where no one could intrude. This was her solitude. Her world, where she was the master of what she created and not the malicious Fates which seemed to like playing around with hers. She would showcase her art, post pictures on Instagram, garnering critical appraisal from her peers.
But all the appraisal could never overshadow the horrors of what she had faced. Her suicidal tendencies made her drown in Hennesey and fly off Cali, getting lifted more than she was aware of her surroundings. Being sober made her feel nauseous. Intoxication became her newfound love, it became her reality. And in this alternate reality, the old one was forgotten. Her art had been slaughtered, butchered by the love of poison in her liver. The people she could call friends had left her for reasons her buzzing brain couldn’t fathom. In her loneliness, her kitchen knife became her best friend. And one fateful night, it wrapped itself lovingly around her wrists and dug deep, never to let go- it became a part of her. And as she drowned out from the alcohol so did her screams to the loud music that was blaring from the speakers on the nearby streets. She’d finally lost consciousness once and for all, and all that she could remember were the first couple of lines of that very same song, playing on rewind in her twisted brain.

“Don’t you open up that window,
Don’t you let out that antitode…”