Yet another Writing Blog

Jack Bright stares at his face in the mirror, half shaved and absolutely not his. As he stares into the eyes of the face he controls, he feels he’s looking into the eyes of another, because, really, he is. He can’t recognize himself. Not even as he slowly drags the razor along his cheek, his eyes unfocused as his reflection shifts and sneers at him. He’s too busy staring into dead, watery red eyes, eyes he has no business seeing. With a jolt of brief pain that brings him back, he winces as he had nicked his cheek. He turns the squeaky faucet on and quickly throws some cold water over the sliver in his cheek.

And, fuck, those eyes really aren’t his. Neither are the hands that rub water into the cut on someone else’s face.

He startles as he hears the bathroom door creak open, turning to face a mildly surprised Simon Glass. Bright gives a hesitant wave before the therapist speaks. “Shaving in the men’s room again?” Glass asks softly, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Didn’t have time.” Bright mutters, looking away. His eyes — someone’s eyes — drift back up to the reflection in the mirror. He sees Glass. He sees a man. He doesn’t see himself.

“You look… inquisitive.” The psychologist notes, tilting his head slightly and keeping his distance.

“You ever look at yourself and think, wow, that is NOT me, or is that just a me thing?” Bright asks bitterly. He doesn’t look at Glass.

The other man approaches now, just a few steps, and he looks in the mirror at himself next to Bright. “I see… my physical body… and I’m fairly certain that’s me.” He faces Bright with curious, pale blue eyes that are simply the exact opposite of the scientist’s bold red ones. “When I was younger I didn’t like to see my reflection, because I didn’t want to look like a little girl.”

“That’s different.”

“Not really. No matter what your brain believes shouldn’t be true about your physical body, your physical body is still you. You are the person you see in the mirror. So am I, and so was I back when I was little.”

Bright continues to watch the mirror in silence. His face crinkles in frustration. “I had green eyes. I had green eyes, and I needed glasses.” He pulls his eyelids with his index finger and thumb to get a good look at the full eye. “Bullshit.”

“You could think of it as a scar,” Glass says in his stupidly soft spoken way and Bright wants to agree, but goddamn does he want to be right himself. So, cornered and scared, he gnashes and bares his teeth in false anger, like a bad dog.

“Fuck off, Simon.” He snarls through grit teeth, crooked and yellow and sharp and just like a dog’s — and not his. 

“Jack…” Glass begins slowly, carefully. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, nothing here is okay, this place is FUCKED, AND YOU KNOW IT.” Teeth are snapped uselessly against metal bars that separate his wolfish self from the fragile deer on the other side, one he so foolishly wants to kill and hold and cry into and love. His own humanity cages him and he gnaws wildly at the bars.

“I know this place isn’t right in… a lot of ways, but I also know it’s better to accept flaws sometimes.” Glass reaches out, offering his hand to Bright. The scientist swallows a lump in his throat, glaring with his lip between his teeth as he takes Glass’ hand. Glass intertwines their fingers, and he looks up and smiles. “You see that?”

“I’m not blind.”

“No — I mean, you see our hands, touching. And you feel it. Right?”

“…Sure.” Bright keeps his eyes locked on their hands, his bony knuckles and long fingers awkwardly engulfing the soft and small hand of the psychologist. He feels the gentle warmth coming from Glass’ hand against his significantly colder one — his own hands always seem to be freezing — and he feels the pressure from each of them holding on.

“That’s you.” Glass says.

“What.” It comes out more a statement than a question.

“You see yourself holding my hand, you feel yourself holding my hand. You’re you. That body is you. It’s yours.” Glass smiles up at Bright, confident he’s made a point.

And goddammit, he has.