I Saw My Reflection.
After several days of complete madness in Daytona, it was more than a little disheartening to arrive back in Pitcairn.
The Sunshine State – even though I’d avoided all sunshine – had reminded me what it was like to have fun, to party all day and night, to be amongst people who drank like I did, who proclaimed freedom as a mantra, who thought I was a superstar just for lifting my shirt.
Now I was returning to the doldrums of work and empty bars. Reality hit like a sledgehammer.
The apartment was dark and dingy, a reminder of my agonizing loneliness. The garbage reeked in the kitchen since no one had emptied it before we left, and the bathroom smelled as moldy as ever. The stench of stale cigarettes and ash would have been unbearable if I hadn’t been smoking a cigarette when I walked in. The thin carpeting was filthy and my bare feet felt grittier than when I’d been romping in the dirt outside our tent.
Larry clomped up the steps behind me, tossed some stuff onto our bed and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich. He didn’t seem to notice the condition of our apartment, or the smell.
Until I’d had this one day without alcohol, I’d somehow not been aware of the state of our apartment.
My home was embarrassingly disgusting. I wondered for a moment why anyone would want to live here. How would it appear to other people? This place was gross. But I’d never noticed it before.
A week away, and one day without alcohol, and … here I was.
I was sad to be home, disappointed in what I’d come home to, apathetic about Larry, excited only about going back to work where I could see my friends, get high at lunchtime, and earn another few dollars so I could drink for another few days.
I stepped into the bathroom and, for the first time in a week, I saw my reflection in the chipped bathroom mirror. I dropped my cigarette into the toilet and stared.
I hadn’t seen my own face in a very long time.
I’d spent a week ignoring my pain with the help of countless cans of beer, and some root beer schnapps. I’d had sex with Larry several times in the pup tent without a single thought about how I appeared.
But back at home, with the offending bedroom nearby reminding me of Larry’s fists, and the offending window reminding me of my suicide attempt, I was stunned into stillness.
I was no longer listening to the solid roar of motorcycle engines or enjoying Lookin’ Out My Back Door on repeat. I wasn’t the suave character who’d had such fun dancing in the bar with the guys in Daytona. And I wasn’t the sexy girl I imagined I’d been as I randomly flashed bikers, strolling coolly and confidently through the masses of black t-shirts and tattoos.
In spite of so much time passing, I still looked like someone who’d been pummeled in the face then dove out a window. In other words, I still looked like me.
And I had exactly one shot left on my roll of film.
