The Mirrors

Chapter 4

In all the time Harry had been in America for treatment, he had never been to Los Angeles, except the day he had flown in from Great Britain. The problem, of course, is still his discomfort in public. So, when I suggest him to go to town on his day off, he refuses right away. But I don't give up trying to persuade him, and even go to the dishonest collusion with his doctors, a psychotherapist, and a simple mortal nurse, who three times a week injected him with vitamins. We all think Harry could use a change of scenery for a day. But his answer doesn't change. Instead, he plaintively appeals to me:

"Please, I don't want that..."

"You'd like it."

I say persuasively, but I already feel like I'll have to back off pretty soon.

"People will be looking at me, and I'll be thinking about is how to disappear."

Harry replies evenly, but I can see from his expression that this confession, no matter how many times he says it, is not easy for him every time.

We're sitting in his room. I've been here often enough in the last month.

"If you looked in the mirror, you'd know it wasn't so bad."

I say in the last attempt. Harry purses his lips. His fingers tucked an unruly strand of hair back behind his ear. Then the pads slip over the uneven scar. And he lets out a stifled breath, trying not to sound sad, but he still does.

"I don't need it, I already know what it is. I feel it every day. By my fingertips."

Harry considers himself to be disfigured and ugly. I have no idea if it's possible to explain to him that he's not. And, even if he is, so no one has died from this. Life isn't over. Although for him more than could over. I feel the thin blade gently and carefully weave a painful pattern across my lungs. Harry's regret tastes the same as if he regretted being alive at all. And that's a slap in the face I'm not ready for.

All I say in response is:

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize."

Harry says, a polite smile touching his lips that I sometimes think it's just for me.

"I wish I could go somewhere, but not now."

Of course, against the wishes of Harry not to pass. And I can't force him out. So, we just turn on the next "How I Met Your Mother" series.

It's only when I fold up my laptop before saying goodbye Harry asks, himself returning to a sore subject for him.

"What do you think? This is very awful?"

He brushes his hair back from his face and looks at me with his perfect, magical eyes.

"Your scar?"

I ask cautiously, returning my gaze to the lines on the more uneven skin. And I swallow because in this situation it is very difficult not to succumb to the temptation and not to lie, trying to smooth out your answer. I know Harry wants me to be honest, not to show mercy, which in this case would be worse than rude mockery. I forbid myself to lie.

"I think you should stop being ashamed of it, Harry?"

"What?"

"It's not your fault that it happened. You survived a serious accident and continue to fight every day for your opportunities. You shouldn't be ashamed of this: your willpower and your diligent desire to live on. It's not fair." My fingers catch Harry's on top of the blanket, and he flinches but doesn't pull his hand away, studying my face.

"You should be proud of how much and hard you work on yourself you don't need to hide it from others."

Harry's lips are set in a thin line so they don't tremble, and my finger circles the back of his hand. When my foolish tongue, yielding to weakness, yet utters: