Lady in the Mirror

The flickering overhead light is too dim to know how bloody my hoodie is, and the raw public bathroom tile on my feet gives me pause. I fumble with my frigid fingers, but I don’t mind the temperature even as I stand bare with one pant leg wrapped around my ankle with the other free. I slide my final sock off and let it pile inside the crumpled jeans. I take a moment to think but can’t get a steady track. 

My heart races as I pull a pair of shorts over my waist, Nike and gray, while I size up a shirt pulled from a plastic market bag. Thankfully, the cashier was on the phone and let me use the bathroom before I bought an item, many places around here frown on that. I remove any identifiable accessories: the smart-watch—useless with its dead battery, the bracelets that jingle and alert my presence, and the one that hurt the most—my grandfather’s chain. I ditch the bracelets and smart-watch in the feminine box and tuck the chain and my earrings into my purse. I throw on a t-shirt that exposes my belly button but hides my tattoo. It’s small, but I can’t risk being identified; I’m a murderer now. 

With my black—not white socks, and a pair of shoes that weren’t on my feet when I left the house this morning, I check for any signs of someone having entered since I did before I leave the stall door open with a sloppily wrapped bundle of blood-stained casual wear with my purse slung over my shoulder. My old shoes rest behind another stall’s toilet. Both the baggy and my purse sit patiently on the counter with the plastic bag wide enough to consume a ball of thick clothing. I seal it with a knot right before the door swings open. A gust of air tells me I should pretend to be alert instead of startled as I toss my chin over my shoulder for a side glance. I slide the plastic handles on my wrist when she enters, a small but bulky, uniformed officer with her hair hiked and her eyes narrow. She’s not here to use the bathroom. 

I avoid her gaze and wash my hands. My eyes widen subconsciously as I catch a glimpse of the faint outline of blood stains drying on my skin. I use a handful of white foam soap to conceal as much as I can, but she recognizes the faint panic in the mirror. 

“Long day?” she asks. 

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” 

“No weather for an outfit like that, though.” 

I continue to scrub under my nails. “The gym is right next door. I just stopped in here for a drink.” 

My shoulders ease at her nod of camaraderie through the mirror. She checks the stalls for any lingering feet in view before her face crinkles with an awkward smile. She leans in closer than I prefer, even under normal circumstances.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a—” she began, pausing as her eyes darted all over me. I assume she needs feminine affection, and I instinctually reach into my purse. When I pull out a pad, my eye hits the gun on her waist. I make a smile last as long as it needs so she’ll take it and tend to her business, but her smile fades. 

“You’re bleeding.” She said.

I freeze, “What?” She flips my wrist, and there it is, a patch of dried blood on porcelain skin. I look through her with the softest eyes of a lost animal. She says nothing and awaits a response with a dry stare that asks where it came from without uttering a word. 

“My sister had an accident today at school, so I told her she could wait in my car, and I’d get rid of her clothes.”

“Why not just wash them at home?” she said, pinching the pad between two fingers. 

“You try speaking sense to a teenage girl with Aunt Flow on her shoulder. She wants them gone, so I was going to wash them at my apartment complex and sneak them back to her in a few days.”

“Smart.” She holds up the pad with a curled lip and a trusting smile. “Thanks again.”  

She slips into the stall and locks the door. I look down at my twitching fingers. Underneath a trembling light, I look in the polished mirror with a stranger staring back. I tighten the bag around my wrist. 

“Have a nice day,” I say with warm regards. She barely finishes a second ‘thank you’ in time before I push the door open. I let my hair down before the cashier can get a clear sight of me, avoiding the cameras. A high school senior, or college freshman, slouched along the counter perks his head when we lock eyes. 

“Hi, ma’am,” he said innocently, “everything alright?” 

The Burger Mart is emptier than usual, or maybe I was just in that much of a hurry and hadn’t noticed the group of men ogling my shorts between smarmy glances at sports highlights on an overhead TV. Another sits on the wall behind the cashier while the news blares over the noise in the dining area. 

“A cup of lemonade, please.” He turns his back to grab the cup without looking up at the TV. The report plasters footage of a feminine figure wearing a baby blue hoodie covering her head and dark skinny jeans, both soaked in blood, as she fled the scene of what they call a violent crime. The cashier hands me the cup, and I feel his eyes glancing back and forth between the TV and me. 

“People are crazy these days. Your total is two dollars and thirty-seven cents.” 

I hand him a five and take the cup. 

“Keep the change.” He smiles and tells me he appreciates it before the ‘Have a nice day’ hits the air; I’m already leaving the door hanging for the next person walking through. 

I round the building, pass the gym, and head down the alley, peering into the woods. The reports called it a violent crime, but no one was there. No one really knows. I only get halfway down before I hear the scrapes of shoes skirting from behind me, the obvious cough to get me to whip my head around. I pull my purse tighter when I turn to see a man from the Burger Mart. He probably bet his buddies he could get my number. I ignore him and speed walk, but he’s faster and more persistent.

“Hey now,” he says losing breath, “you’re fast.” 

“I’d like to get home without company, thank you.” 

“Come on, darling, you can’t be wearing something like that in weather like this—”

“But I am. And I’m not interested.” I ignore his face, but he won’t take his eyes off of me—my legs. My apartment complex is past the scoop of woods a few yards from the nearest dumpster. I feel cold—colder than the weather, and rough hands squeezing my arm. He spins me to face him in a short matter. He’s blue-collar, large and dirty, with a handsome face and scruffy clothes. A lingering yet potent smell exudes from his hair. His eyes stretch and sink with pity. 

“Listen,” he says with a sudden ease in his tone. My face doesn’t hide vain disgust. “I don’t have to be your boyfriend or nothing—and he doesn’t have to know—” 

I hear his pants unzip, and I squint at him as if to ask if he was effing serious, but the look on his face told me everything I needed to know. He lasted longer than the guy earlier. This time, I was careful to keep blood off my shoes. I gave him an out—both of them. I’m not the bad person. I’m not the bad person. I’m not a bad person. I’m not, but I could get used to it.