I used to watch him shave. I liked to. I liked to see his face covered with white foam, to see him cutting smooth golden paths through it, and the tiny eruptions of blood here and there- accidental poppies.
And I saw the way his eyes regarded his eyes, satisfied. I found his smugness unwarranted and shrugged on for my benefit. Don’t be so damned happy about it, I thought, ashamed and knowing. I couldn’t, and still can’t, comprehend how anyone felt able to do that, look one’s self in the eye like that, like they are fooling themselves.
But it was in the way his eyes focused on themselves then lost their character, solidity, with their lids spread apart like curtains or legs, revealing his most secret, private place. Those eyes, staring at the mirror, the eyes staring back into the gelatinous surface of his irises, pupils, were seeing something sinister. I saw something sinister. He was not aware of the reddening of his neck, coloring his ears. He didn’t see the slight downward turn being made by his mouth.
But he didn’t fool me and we broke up.
Because- when I look at my own reflection, there is no satisfaction. I stop whatever I’m doing and stare because when I see someone like that I can’t look away. It’s like a gory accident, a fight, a slice of chocolate cake, a line of coke.
I see it in my eyes. It’s all there plain as daylight. I know something. I have secrets. Deep down dark kind of secrets. Some things that’re shameful inside. Others don’t see it, that’s why they aren’t afraid. They don‘t know what I know, see what I see from the mirror. They don’t see my face go slack as its reflection smirks, sniggers, knows my badness, my propensity for sin.
But I, I, know all of my secrets, looking at my eyes, my mouth- my face which is a rough hewn tablet carved up and ancient- and I know how to read its symbols. That scar was from when I was so drunk I got raped in the ass. This mark is from stitches I got after getting into a fist fight with a neighbor who decided to cut me with a broken beer bottle. And these small, half-moon shaped scars are from when I grab the flesh of my cheeks and squeeze until I cry.
It’s like when you look at yourself very hard and you see that you’re a whole new ugly thing. Altered. Mutated. It makes your skin goose bump to know that feeling coming over you, to see those things inside you, to be that monster.
And it’s all there, in your very own eyes in your eyes.
(copyright 2008 ) c A Hughes
05.30.08
there’s this deal i wrote once–completely made up. but my sister read it and, as it had to do with some childhood trauma, called me up to see if she was supposed to be watching me that day–the day the made-up thing happened. i told this story to a therapist i knew, recited the piece, and reiterated that it was complete fiction. her response? she said, “Maybe.”
her argument was that the feelings around the made-up words were real, and i suppose i couldn’t dispute that effectively in a court of law. anyway, i was thinking about the idea that fiction is sometimes more real than fact itself as i was reading this post.
i adore “accidental poppies”.
i adore your stream of consciousness writing. it reads as fresh and authentic as your fiction or creative non-fiction or fact. it resounds. i’ll hang onto accidental poppies as i’ve hung onto the name etched into the thigh, and the poignancy in “i know no one by that name”.
It makes perfect sense.
It seems everything, just about, every thing like this that i write, is filled with my feelings and revelations and confusions.
And like i told Red, there’s always some kernel of my life inside, even if in my mind i see some other person, other places, or take it in some other direction.
i’d guess artists of all types work from these headquarters.
~c
also, thank you.
i love you, too.
Oh beautiful!
i was hoping it wouldn’t seem creepy.
Thank you for everything.
Fiction? it seemed too real to me. I watched it play out. several times. I watched it and felt it.
what you write, C, is so . . it just flows so beautifully. It’s not up and down and all over the place. It’s just like floating on a raft down a peaceful stream kinda flow.
I always enjoy what you write.
Thank you.
There are elements of myself in my fiction sometimes.
In this there is a non-fiction detail upon which i build fiction.
i often wonder then, is it still fiction?
Sometimes i think so, because things always turn out differently than they actually did.
i’m glad it’s not all over the place because i think all over and am all over.
i’m never sure how that translates.
~c
I’m not a writer nor do I know much about writing but I do read a lot. Every time you write something I always seem to read it at least three times which I don’t normally do. I think it’s because I want to know more and if I read it again I feel I will discover more and I usually do. I never look at myself in the mirror. All I see is the fattest person I know.
That piece actually makes me want to look in a mirror to see what’s there.
Joan, i am moved by your comment.
i’ve never seen you, (aside from those hottie pics in your sidebar!) but i’ve a strong belief that if you ever were to study your eyes, you would see the determination, humor and strength that comes across so plainly in your writing.
Thank you so much for the compliment.
It is a great encouragement to me to continue on with this story, which i’ve been contemplating.
It also lets me know that i am achieving what i desire to inspire in anyone who reads my writing.
~c
Ouch.
Raw.
Honest.
Very good.
Thank you.
i love that.
~c
When I read many of your posts I am hit with a bit of literary “shock and awe.” Damn…did I just read that? The next questions is – did that really happen to the writer? In the end, does it matter? I like your words because you keep em’ guessing. Embellishment never killed nobody. Besides, could they handle the truth? In Florida it would get you baker-Acted. If you lay your heart out it gets trampled and disrespected. Much props on this post.
Thank you, JP.
i don’t even know what to say.
Your comment is too much for me.
~c
@C. Ditto Peeps response. I was amazed at your talent too – I wanted to ask was this a true story or not; but thought better of it. It is a true story for some one- i can relate to many of its aspects. If the writings are fiction, you certainly have an uncanny ability to tap into human emotion! Keep up the good writing. It’s fresh!
Thank you very much.
Wow! i am so pleased that people really felt this one.
i will tell you that it began with my pervasive feelings of self, hm? Distrust? Loathing?
i know that you are a positive person and i do try, and will continue to try, to find positivity in life- my life, but this is difficult for me. i put it down to being ungrateful. Anyway, i’ve these feelings about me, then i was watching the movie Damage about a man who has an affair with his son’s girlfriend.
There’s a part, after the first physiacl encounter, when Jeremy Irons looks at himself in the mirror. And the way that he does this is so compelling- i can see the million thoughts running through his mind in his eyes. i was inspired.
i put myself there. i put imagined people there. i put everyone there in fron of that mirror and let their eyes tell me what i should put there.
Often, when reading other people’s work, i take an approach similar to yours, especially if i’m not familiar with the purpose of the writing.
Thank you for your bright.
For reading and commenting.
And thanks for the encouragement.
~c
C..C..c…c
Very very nice job. Nice balance…powerful words and such a nice start that opens to so much.
What am i going to do with you?
I’m impressed once again.
peace,
Hey, stranger!
Thank you for visiting.
And thanks for the kind words cos, you know, i do what i can.
~c
[...] in the mirror II [...]