Reflections
Dan Eccles

Grime and dirt plastered the grout and tiles. The toilet wore a coat of brown and yellow paste as it leaned against the wall next to the stale, dry shower that had been unused for many days. Mold and mildew spread through the walls like veins just under skin. The air was thick with warm whiskey and pungent body odor. Two crusty mirrors faced each other.
A man stood in the bathroom. Grease plated his hair to his scalp. Hair that had grown beyond stubble peppered his face. His teeth felt fuzzy. He wore the same clothes that he had for the last six days. He felt inseparable from the pit-stained white t-shirt and grubby jeans that were far too big for him. They had become his uniform.
He stared at an army of reflections that stretched for an eternity. Each face was identical, but to him each one was unique. The very sight of those faces made his fingers curl and his blood boil. He could see the truth in their faces, the truth he didn’t want to see and wouldn’t accept. He despised them as he despised himself.
Through the ranks the soldiers mocked him, matching his every move—blinking as he blinked and breathing to the same cadence. A single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. He tightened his grasp around the revolver at his side, drew his breath, and slowly brought the gun to his temple. His army saluted back. He made the order.
Bang!
Far off in the distance one soldier went limp and fell lifelessly to the floor. Bang! Another soldier obeyed and fell like a ragdoll. Bang! Shots fired down the line like a burning fuse. Each shot splattered his mind with the pain, memories, and every detail that made him resent life.
Dad walking out on them. Bang! Not being man enough to stand up to bullies at school. Bang! Hearing Mom’s sobs through the paper thin walls each night. Bang! Tim, the guy Mom latched on to for years even though he made her more miserable than Dad did. Bang! Sleeping with a pillow over his head and still being unable to drown out the sound of Tim’s fists striking Mom. The birthday present Tim gave him when he turned fifteen—a pain in the jaw that lasted for a week. The first time alcohol burned its way down his throat. Bang! Bang! Bang!
Each fallen soldier brought the line closer to him. Every shot increased the tension between his finger and the trigger. The gun grew heavier with every bang. His chest tightened. Sweat ran down his brow as he waited for his turn.
The pain and memories continued to shoot through his mind as the fuse burned. That stupid Green Day song Susan sang in the car over and over again.The first time his fist struck her. Bang! Bang!
The fuse burned closer. The familiar burn of bourbon down his throat as he justified his violence. She deserves it. Somebody has to put her in place. The same words Tim used to fuel his delusions. Bang! The humiliation of divorce court. Susan’s claim that it was for their daughter’s good, that she couldn’t let him ruin her life too. Losing everything as the echoes bounced off the walls from the resounding thud of a gavel. Bang!
Finally his turn had come. Unable to contain the pain any longer he tightly closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. Why can’t I see Daddy again? A phrase that had haunted him. He’s not your Daddy anymore.
Bang!

After what seemed like an eternity he forced his eyes open. His revolver extended straight out in front of him, barrel smoking. Shards of mirror littered the counter and floor. Violent tremors ran down his arm, and the gun tumbled from his hand to the floor. He fell to his knees.