Gripless Mirror Syndrome

             "I bet you'd like to fuck me, wouldn't you?" Black eyes warm. Soft voice cold.

            No jacket was wrapped around me. No coat. Just short sleeves. Troops of cold breezes sent from the ocean, crashed against me like grill flames crashing against charcoals. Despite that, her words gave me warmth. They were colder than the ocean below the pier's railing we were leaned up against, yet they still gave me warmth. Just like the ocean, impossible to grasp. Only hardship and fruitless pursuit lived inside her words—like the shell of a fantasy told in cruel reality—yet, her words made me tremble, like my body was overheating; the tiny drops of liquid that fell onto my tongue, impossible to tell rather it was sweat or salt crystals brushed off by the wind.

            I was quiet. The usual mold my comfortable self-esteem clung to.

           "That's it, isn't it? Just say it." I wanted to turn my head to look at her. I would still remain quiet, but wanted to turn my head. "Cause, why do such nice shit for me? Good kid, but bet you don't do that nice shit for anybody else." She forced me to look at her, tiny fingers pigmented by a sheet of albino blush, yanking my head towards her. Nearly eye level. Had to force my head to rise. "You do, don't you." Wanted to nod, but didn't. My eyes moved down towards the ground. The downward movement of eyes, signaled shame and guilt. This was the one habit she knew of mine. She lit up a cigarette, pink lips beautiful despite dry. Like a rose petal half withered. "That collage you made for me..." The cold breeze rummaged through every part of our frames, but she was able to light up her cigarette on the first try. "...I didn't even know I liked half the shit you put on there. If Ronny made such a thing for me, I'd let that inconsiderate dickhead do what he'd like."

        Jets of gray smoke marched out her mouth, swelling my eyes with irritated red before the breeze broke them into ashy particles. She knew how much I hated her smoking. Hated the way smoke made my skin feel. Dry and itching like thin layers of gravel were pinned to my skin. Hated how it soaked into my clothes. Unable to fully get out like it were part of the fabric. But more than that, she knew how much I hated seeing her smoke. Always smoking in between taking strong gulps of alcohol. Every week, I would see a new wrinkle from her behavior

        Half of her cigarette was gone, clumping to her lungs. She tossed the cigarette into the ocean like its polluted majesty was her other half. With no delay, she grabbed a fresh one and lit up. Orange embers. An ugly light disturbing the beautiful darkness. "What did I say to you? Cool? Bet you wanted a hug. You didn't get one did you? But you dreamed about me hugging you, didn't you? Bet you even dreamed about me letting you fuck me before feeling bad. Still though, bet you masturbated to the thought of me just hugging you. Probably so pathetic, that you masturbated to the thought of me just thanking you. I didn't though. Didn't stop you from making another gift the next year."

        She said she was tainted already more than once. I didn't believe it, even though I knew the truth of what she meant. Those scenes probably played more vividly in my mind than it did hers. I tortured myself by remembering every relationship she ever told me about. How explicit she would get. Complaining about the men she had dated or hooked up with. I was the only one she opened up to on that level. She would tell me about them both to have someone to unload her emotions onto and to toy with the feelings she knew that I had for her. They were nothing to her other than a gateway to ease her own pain. I was her emotional sacrifice just like she was the physical sacrifice for the men that took advantage of her. Never, would she speak out against the men that abused her. Instead, she would place all her suffering onto me. Sleep was usually lost afterwards.

        "So why do it? Why go through so much effort? I treat you like shit, kid. Yet, you stick around." Her new cigarette was devoured until only a third of it remained. After being tossed in the ocean, she grabbed a new one, immediately lighting it up. Smoke again, leeching to my skin and clothes. "Remember when you brought your friend to my house, what did I do? I fucked his brains out while you were in the next room. That morning, you said I was the most important person in your life. You're no longer friends with that prick that broke my nose. Yet, you still greet me every morning with that stupid smile of yours. Bet you just want to break down and cry. Call me a bitch like we both know that I am."

        When it was just the two of us, she would make me cry from what she would say. Always insulting me and toying with how I felt about her. Whenever we were around other people, she would make me cry from what she would do. Flirting and playing around with the people close to me. Yet, I would never cry infront of her. Only when I got home, laying in my bed, darkness pouring over me, would the tears come. But, she would always cry infront of me. Suicidal thoughts ran out her mouth more than smoke did. Tiny crevice cuts smeared her skin many times; glass from broken vodka bottles. Bruises were never an uncommon sight to see. The small ones were the worst. The smaller the bruises, the longer the relationship would last.

        She smoked her new cigarette until all that remained was the butt of it. It burned her two fingers, but she felt no pain. With one tiny vapor of smoke left, her cigarette was done and so was she for the night. No more toying with me. No more insulting me. No more crying about her life and the hell that the men in it caused for her. She threw the butt in the water.  Soon, all that would follow was silence.

        She looked at me, her eyes cold and empty. Yet, her voice was warm despite being pitiful. "I'm sorry for the way that I treat you." Nearly monotone, but soaked with the last ounce of trust her heart could give.

        I felt like kissing her—holding her—making her forget everything, even though I knew that forever, I would be the one carrying her emotional turmoil.

        Yes, just kiss her.

       I didn't. Instead, she kissed me on the cheek and left without saying a word. Leaving me behind in the ocean's coldness.