For Me to Take My Place

I am currently standing in front of the mirror, above the cracked sink. I'm staring intensely into my own eyes, my right arm placed on the wall. I'm not aware that it's scratching one of the tiles, not damaging it in the slightest. I desperately need this moment to last forever and then finish at the appropriate time.

A crashing feeling hangs over me like a dark cloud, poisoning my ability to willingly move a single muscle. Exploring the depths of my reflection's eyes does not bring me any closer to discovering where this misery stems from. But it's urgent. There is a fire that needs to be put out, but I have no understanding of it. I might have even started it. At some point. And as long as it burns me from the inside, I cannot move on. So I do not. I am currently standing in front of a mirror, above a cracked sink, and time is knocking at my bathroom's door, knowing full well it's going to have to wait.

I probably would have said that I had a nice day, all things considered. Nothing could have changed that, if anything because I wasn't going to let it, in one way or another. I began with a knock at my door. As far as I knew, I would meet the person who would go on to become my best friend many years, many moments from then, therefore her sudden visit surprised me. Nonetheless, I welcomed her in, and with drinks in hand, we spent all of our time talking about what would and wouldn't be.

We talked about strange things. We talked about things that were important and irrelevant. We talked about old times. I said I was excited to experience them, which made her feel uneasy. Nothing can ever be set in stone, she thought. She was worried about the person I might eventually become. There was a possibility that she would no longer sense myself in me. I laughed it off, as whom else could I ever be? I told her it might be that she won't know me that well.

But she did. Like no one else ever will. She hesitated. In the end, she chose not to tell me about all of the horrible things I would do if ever given the opportunity. She should have. Because her choice made me remember. I remembered what she will end up telling me on her deathbed. It will be so, so much worse. Why didn't she stop me now? Each of her words will cut my soul into a million pieces. Is an effect that comes before its cause really that strange?

I think that was the worst moment of my life, and, as such, I let myself move on to the next one. I pretended I didn't know what was going to happen, otherwise I wouldn't have let it. And as the next moment, the one that would change the trajectory of all the other ones was unfolding, I asked her in a last-ditch effort. What could I do to prevent all of the misery I will cause? Try to stay yourself at least a little longer, she said. I don't remember what happened next. There is a moment missing. But I'm trying to follow her advice. I'm standing above a cracked sink.

Was I ever a good person? Will I ever be a good person? As long as I exist, I don't know what I will see. I don't know what will happen to me. I don't know what happened to my friend. I've never seen it.

Am I a good person?

I am not the one who did it. That person is long gone. No, I wasn't a good person. But I am. Right? I can't do anything about what I did. I would never, I could never do that, I did.

I find comfort in existing. That's all I have left. And I must hold onto that, whatever it takes. I'm so scared to move on. She was right. What's done is done. But as long as I stay myself, as long as I scratch the tile, she lives. And I exist. God, I'm so scared not to. I must sacrifice what will be so that I can save what is.

But at the end of time, I am ready. I am wrong, I am wrong the entire time. All of my existence has been a prison, bound by the confines of a single moment. I look at the scratch mark on the tile next to the mirror. There is blood. Try as I might, there is no other way. I turn around and open the door. I step out into the light.

.

.

.

I will leave the bathroom. I will awaken to the reality of my friend dying on the floor with a blade in her chest. A blade I inserted. I will be in shock, I will be a helpless, confused child lost in the fog of effect and cause. Left alone to pick up the crumbs, to make the most out of the reality that will be left to me, by those who will have come before me. I will run up to her, tears probably dripping down my face. I will listen to her confession as she draws her final breath. And I will know why I did what I did. I will start laughing, cause it will just be so stupid. It will all just be so pointless and stupid. But oftentimes, the words of the ones who will know you the best, those words wounded the deepest. I might continue laughing as I hear the sirens, as my pupils are ambushed by a wall of lights, as my hands are twisted and cuffed. I ruined my life. But I'm not the one to suffer for that.

I will.

That poor sucker. I wish you well.

I'm not a good person. I might be.

For me to take my place,

for some hope of change

I move on.