Another short story blog. Well... you all have really surprised me. YOU REALLY LIKE MY WRITING! Am a tad shocked, but it so lovely to read your comments and go "They like my writing! They not faking it!". So thank you for liking the previous few stories and I hope you like this one. No real idea where this came from. I just felt I had to write it.
I hope you guys like!
The me in the mirror looked nothing like me.
The me in the mirror looked strong-jawed, stubborn, defiant, totally kick-ass.
He looked nothing like how I felt.
A walking lie.
I slowly took deep breaths, my insides twisting and writhing painfully as I stared at myself in the mirror, my knuckles white as I gripped the sink.
I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing as a spike of panic stabbed the back of my brain.
Deep breath in, hold, deep breath out.
Oh my God!
Deep breath in, hold -
This can't be happening! This shouldn't be happening to me!
- deep breath out. Deep breath -
They made a mistake!
But they didn't.
I opened my eyes and saw the me in the mirror. His skin looked pale.
I gripped the sink tighter as my knees nearly gave out. I gasped and forced myself to remain standing as my stomach knotted and my lunch threatened to come up.
There was a gentle knock on the bathroom door.
“Sweetie.” My mum's concerned voice. Of course. “Is everything okay in there?”
“Yeah. Everything's fine.” My voice answered as my brain screamed, No. No, everything's not okay. It's not fine. Everything's wrong!
When did it become so easy to lie?
I waited before I risked letting my hands release their vice-like grip of the wash basin. My knees didn't buckle.
Without thinking about it, I raised my hands and my fingers touched my hair. I liked my hair. I never realised that before. I quite liked my short yet messy black hair that I couldn't tame, no matter how hard I tried.
I felt my face twitch in a smile. But it never really met my lips.
I tried to take a mental photograph as I lowered my hands. I reached out and took hold of cool plastic.
I forced myself to take a breath. Breathe, I told myself. Just breathe.
I stared at the mirror and a rush of doubt knotted at my windpipe.
Before I could think too much about it, I leaned my head over the sink, turned on the hair cutter and buzzed cut my hair off.
Don't cry, I mentally chanted. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.
I felt a rush of emotions coursing through my veins and push down on my bones. Terror, fear, shame and yet... liberating. It felt odd feeling these mix of emotions and yet feel lighter somehow.
When no more hair fell into the sink, I turned off the hair cutter. Closing my eyes, I raised my head up to its natural height. Then opened my eyes.
And fought the urge of hysterical laugh.
I looked like a bald egg with painted-on lips and stuck-on googly-eyes.
And yet, the me in the mirror looked more like me. Or how I felt. Smaller somehow, deflated, terrified.
The doctors told me to name it. According to them, giving it a name that I hated would help me beat it.
Apparently, calling it Leukaemia isn't enough to beat it.
I thought of names but dismissed them, all the while never taking my eyes off the mirror.
The me in the mirror looked the same as before. Smaller, frailer. But there was something about his eyes. My eyes. It was small, but it was there. A glint of something.
“You listen to me, you son of a bitch,” I growled at the mirror. “I'm going to beat you. You can bet on it!”