"I know that you say I get mean when I'm drinking, but
Then again, sometimes I get really sweet so
What does it mean if I tell you to go fuck yourself?
Or if I say that you're beautiful to me?"
-
I never did like mirrors.
For a long time, I thought they were deceiving, but, staring at my reflection with my eyes gazing over my cheeks, the blue of my eyes, the slope of my nose, my dry pink lips, and my short brown hair, I realize they aren't.
My reflection isn't a lie. I want it to be because if it were, maybe it would be easier for me to get out of bed every day, but that's not the case now, is it?
Reflection is an extension of oneself.
I hate lying, but damn, I fucking despise the truth sometimes.
My mind is always racing with self depicted hatred, loathing, and regret, making my insides feel dull and heavy. I'm filled with dark and ugly, I know, and my reflection puts it all up for show and tell. Other people may not see it, but I do. I'm a walking nightmare.
That's why I hate looking at myself.
That hatred is probably the reason why I've broken so many mirrors. Fractured mirrors seem to be the only ones I tolerate, and maybe that's because I find some semblance in those broken pieces.
For right now, at least, I gaze at my reflection after locking myself in the woman's bathroom. Alone, I let my thoughts run wild, hands gripping at the sink counter rather than punching the mirror and screaming.
I never realized that I almost forgot what I looked like. When was the last time I stopped to really look at myself? I can't remember. How fucked up is that? At that thought, I suddenly feel all of the dark and ugly swirl inside me. I'm a stranger to my own self, and I never thought something like that was possible.
Fuck, why am I even doing this to myself?
I should look away, but there's something strange swirling inside me with all of the other dark emotions I can never bring myself to analyze or understand. It's a twisted type of pleasure hidden under all of the pain. I wonder how it got there.
I take a deep breath and finally will myself to look away. I'm shaking when I look down at the small baggie in my sweating hand.
It's been a while, too long if you ask me.
Pain may be addicting, but so is the cure. The cure is in my hands, ripe for the taking, so why am I hesitating? I'm going under again, I know, so what's the point of holding back? I've already let everyone down.
I pull my phone out from my back pocket and realize it's nearly three in the morning. I didn't call Maggie on my break tonight. Granted, I did start reading her stories before I left for work due to the unprecedented situations I often found myself in now, but I did promise I'd try to call her on my breaks still.
Instead, what did I spend my break doing tonight?
Buying these fucking pills.
I unlocked my phone, ready to call Julie to see if maybe Maggie was awake and see if I could speak to her. Thinking that plan over, I realize how unlikely that is. Maggie was tired before I left. She must be asleep by now. So, maybe I could just call and listen to Julie's sweet voice instead.
I look down at the small plastic baggie filled with pills once more. Did I want to call Julie right now as I'm about to break my sobriety? No, probably not. On top of that, we aren't doing too well.
I think I'm losing her. That's no one's fault but my own.
Hearing her voice, though, might make me stop.
The problem is, I don't think I want to stop.
With fumbling hands, I open the baggie and grab the three white pills. I could swallow them, wait for it to kick in, and enjoy the high for a few hours. Or, I could crush them and snort the crushed tablets and get high immediately.
From my experience, snorting amplified everything.
Yeah, I think I'll do just that.
I put the pills on the counter, grabbed a paper towel, and covered the three tablets before looking around for something, anything to crush them. When I find nothing, irritation wracks my bones. I end up using the edge of my phone to hammer down on the pills that I cover with a brown paper towel.
I guess that got the job done because when I pull the paper towel away, I see a white powder covering the sink counter.
Old habits do die hard, huh?
I brush my hair behind my ears, staring down at what I've done and what I'm about to do. The voices in my head won't shut the fuck up, but this will silence them. It always does.
Just do it. Just fucking do it, Allie. What am I waiting for? Freedom lies ahead, so why am I hesitating? Why are there tears in my eyes?
I know that relief is waiting for me. So, I close my eyes and try to remember the feeling. After taking a hit, the opioids would shatter my body before making me whole again—comfortably numb.
Just one small sniff. That's all I need.
The remembrance of the euphoria is too tempting. I've done enough convincing. I deserve something good after all this recent bullshit I've been put through.
But, the world fucking hates me, and I never get anything I want as perusal.
A loud banging has me nearly jumping out of my skin. The little bubble of self-loathing I created shatters and throws me back into the real world.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck-
"Allie? You in there?" The banging persists, and panic strangles me.
Shit!
"Uh, yeah. Just a minute!" I wipe the powder off the table and turn the sink on. I cup my hands to gather some of the water from the faucet before pouring it on the sink counter. Then I rip paper towels out of the paper towel dispenser and clean the mess I made.
The banging continues. "Are you okay?" You've been in there for a while-"
"Yeah, I'm good! Just a minute!"
I'll admit. This isn't my brightest moment. This whole night for me has been fucking pitiful.
I almost trip when I run to the door and unlock it. Candy stands there with a concerned look on her face. She's dressed in a baggy sweatshirt, black leggings, and dirty vans.
"W-we started closing, and then I realized you were gone for a while... I got worried." I blink at her. I've never heard her stutter before or look remotely nervous in my life, but here she is, speaking in a soft tone with her arms wrapped around herself. She looks me up and down with a slight, concerned frown but remains silent.
Jesus, how long have I been in the bathroom? The club is closing now.
Things are tense between us two, more so on my end. I've been ignoring her, and she knows that. She's been trying to talk to me all week, and I've come up with every excuse in the book to get away from her.
She must know what happened. I know that she knows. Now we're doing this awkward dance around one another, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't upset. But my mind is still hazy, and I'm fucking pissed that she interrupted me.
"You were worried?" I don't bother trying to hide my snide. "That's fucking ironic coming from you." I brush past her, my shoulder bumping into hers.
I don't like being angry. I hate when I'm mad but fuck- I never get anything I want. I'm pissed, and I'm frustrated and-
I need to get high.
I feel like crawling out of my skin and screaming.
I walk into the back room just to fucking breathe. It's been getting harder to do that lately. Fuck, addiction has ruined me. I may not have relapsed, but it still runs my life.
But, what else is to be expected? Pills brought me more closure than my own mother. They gave me support and safety, and they certainly didn't hurt me like my stepfather.
I never really cared about what happened to me. Maybe that's why my addiction never bothered me. It only became a problem when it started affecting Julie.
The day she sobbed and begged me to stop was when she dropped me off at rehab. I stopped for her and for her only.
I can't believe I told Julie I regret getting clean for her. The only thing I regret is not being enough for her.
She deserves better. I'm not sure why she's stuck around for so long.
"Oh god," I groan, and my hands move to cover my eyes. "What did I do?" Ironic, considering I know exactly what I've done. I always thought it was impossible to hate myself more than I already do, but I guess I was wrong. I'm wrong about a lot of things.
"Oh, c'mon," I sit down at one of the studio mirrors behind stage and dab under my eyes when I feel my eyes begin to burn with tears. I try to keep my makeup from smudging, but it's useless. My mascara runs and makes my under eyes black. I give up. I'm not hiccuping or sobbing. It's a silent cry I don't have much control over. The tears keep rolling, but my eyes remain focused on the mirror. I lose myself in my reflection once more.
As it turns out, I'm not the only one crying tonight. Jade comes bursting through the door and makes a beeline for her locker. I wipe my eyes quickly before turning around. I watch her with a frown as she gets her things together, with hiccups leaving her lips.
"Are... Are you okay, Jade?"
She looks to me, eyebrows furrowed and lips are quivering. "Do I look okay to you?" She snaps unexpectedly, which makes me jump. Her hands move to cover her face once she realizes what she's done, and she takes a deep breath. "Sorry... I-It's just been a long night." She quickly throws on a sweatshirt and sweatpants. She wipes her tears away and smiles at me almost shyly. "You look pretty tonight. I meant to tell you that earlier."
I blink at her a few times, thrown off by her sudden kindness. "I uh, thank you?"
She laughs softly and clears her throat. "You're funny, Allie." I tilt my head, very confused by that sudden comment. She grabs her gym bag and throws it over her shoulder. "What are you still doing here? Mostly everyone is gone now."
"I uh, I'm going to get ready now and head home."
She nods her head. "Alright then. Get home safe, and I'll see ya later." She smiles kindly before making her way to the door.
Jade confuses me. She definitely has her good and bad days, but I can tell she tries to be nice for the most part. I mean, she's the face of Tribulation, and hell, I'd be a little snappy too if I had to deal with the bullshit she deals with daily.
The door clicks shut, and before I know it, it's quiet again. I pull out my phone to look at the time and realize it's almost an hour past closing. Sighing, I make my way to my locker and throw on more comfortable clothes and sneakers before heading out.
It's dead by the time I come out from the back room. Just about everyone is gone like Jade told me and, suddenly, I can feel the fatigue in my bones and my heavy eyelids. This job pays well, but it messes with my already fucked up sleep schedule, that's for sure.
I realize that most of the lights have been turned off as I make my way through the building to reach the front doors. One light remains on, though, and it illuminates the space enough for me to realize that the club isn't as empty as I initially expected.
Harry is still here.
He's at the bar, alone, hunched over with his elbows resting on the bar countertop. Hair tousled, blazer wrinkled from a day's wear, and a wandering hand holding a glass cup, twirling the amber liquid around inside. He throws the shot back without a flinch and starts pouring himself more from the open whiskey bottle beside him.
"What are you still doing here?" He asks without sparing me a glance.
I'm surprised that fear doesn't wrack my body at the sight of him. Is he dangerous? Yes. Does he basically own my life? Yes. Is he a killer? Yes.
Regardless, I don't run out of the room with my heart pounding. My breathing remains even. I let my eyes gaze over Harry's form, but my roaming eyes stop on his bruised and cut knuckles, obviously stained with blood. I'm not sure if it's his blood or not. I have a feeling it's not his, but I certainly don't want to know.
I don't think my next actions through. I find myself grabbing a clean cloth from behind the bar before making my way over to Harry. I hand it out for him to take. He tilts his head and finally looks up from his glass. He raises a brow at my actions and eyes the cloth in my hand.
I hold the cloth before me, waiting for him just to take it. He doesn't. Instead, he scoffs before turning back to his glass and taking another sip of whiskey.
This is annoying. I understand we don't necessarily get along, but Harry should be fucking grateful I'm even offering him help after he obviously just handled some business.
Many people in the world may seem undeserving of help considering their past actions. Regardless, after getting my doctorate and dedicating my life to saving people, I made a moral obligation to myself.
Always help—even those who seem undeserving. Doctors don't get to pick and choose their patients. Doctors help no matter what. Since I was an aspiring neurosurgeon and researcher, I lived by that rule.
So, I always help. Even people like fucking Harry.
"You obviously need this."
Harry lets out a small sigh before he lifts his head to gaze at me once more. There's something off about him tonight; I'm not sure what. His eyes are clouded, leaving me wondering what thoughts are going through his head.
And, for just a moment, I lose myself in the green of his eyes that are busy scaring over my face. My eyes, nose, and lips. He doesn't even try to hide it. I only look away when his eyes move up to meet mine again.
I can never handle the weight of his stare.
I grind my teeth, and my eyes fall back to his bruised and sliced knuckles. "...I'm uh, I'm going to touch you. Okay?" I wonder if he truly understands how hard this is for me. Touch. Even though I hate it, I reach forward and grab his wrist as gently as possible. I spare him a glance to see if there was any written discomfort on his face, but his face remains unreadable.
I fight back a shudder and pull his large hand closer to me. With my other hand, I take the cloth and dab at his knuckles.
I'm holding the hands of a killer. That's the only thought flying through my head as I dab away at the blood as best as I can. These are the hands that will probably kill me one day too.
It takes everything in me not to freak out. I hope he doesn't see the shake in my hands. If he does, he says nothing. He just sips on his drink, his eyes watching every little thing I do.
"Do you know why I call you by your full name, Rosaline?" He questions, his voice remaining at a low octave.
I swallow with furrowed brows. I keep myself busy, tending to his hand. I hesitate before shaking my head. "N-No."
"You remind me of a rose." He says, simply, his voice low and gruff. He seems tired, and his accent seems thicker than usual as he speaks to me in hushed tones. "A beautiful rose with red petals and some thorns...but roses aren't just beautiful. Do you know what else they are?" I shake my head once more. After a moment, I decidedly lookup.
Licking his lips, he smirks. With me distracted, he takes the opportunity to grab my wrist. It's a gentle touch that robs me of my breath.
A tired, exhausted look takes over his features. He stares up at me through thick lashes and watches me, awaiting a reaction, but I'm frozen. His eyes never leave mine as he brings my hand closer and kisses my knuckles.
And for a moment, I wonder if I'm witnessing a different side of Harry. It's a side I still don't completely understand or trust. It only confuses me. He confuses me. I even find myself tilting my head a bit at his strange actions.
I don't trust people, but I'm usually good at reading them. A person's energy tells me all I need to know about them. But Harry? I know he's terrible, he's a fucking killer, but he confuses me. I want to know what swirls around in that head of his. I want to understand what drives his decisions. What are his motives?
What I want to know more than anything is why he hasn't killed me yet.
When his lips pull away from my skin, he's still looking up at me. Unexpectedly, a slow, taunting smirk takes over his features. Malice is there, written in his eyes and the curl of his lips. It's fucking crazy how he can just flip a switch and show his true colors.
"Useless." He speaks up suddenly. "Weak. They're pretty for a little while, but they all end up dying the same. They wither away, losing all of their petals one by one until there's nothing left." I rip my hand from his grip. He seems pleased with the reaction I give him.
He's so sick.
Harry takes one last shot before standing. He looks down at me now, and I find myself shell-shocked, frozen, too scared to look away from his intense eyes.
When he leans close, I tumble back, trying to create space between us two. I end up trapped between Harry and the bar countertop, cornered with his arms on each side of me.
He chuckles and brushes the hair from my face behind my ear. He eyes my neck before leaning close once more, so close that his lips touch past the shell of my ear. "I fucking hate roses," he whispers. Then, his nose traces down the skin of my neck, his lips brushing my skin, his hot breath making me shiver. Before I can fully process what's happening, he pulls away.
I struggle for breath.
How Harry can always speak in hushed tones and still make his despise for me very apparent, I'll never understand. It makes him all the more terrifying to me if I'm being honest. He's quiet but deadly. That's something a lot of people can and will never master.
He's fucking psychotic.
It's no wonder why people speak of him in hushed whispers. But, they never call him by his name. They call him the devil, and I think I understand why better than anyone.