Aidan Doyle
A yolk trapped in an egg, ready to slip out in my yellow night robe and tackle the needs of many.
Aidan Doyle
A yolk trapped in an egg, ready to slip out in my yellow night robe and tackle the needs of many.
A yolk trapped in an egg, ready to slip out in my yellow night robe and tackle the needs of many.
A yolk trapped in an egg, ready to slip out in my yellow night robe and tackle the needs of many.
It has been many years since I’ve looked at my own reflection. The last time I did I punched the mirror until it glass fell to the floor like raindrops. Whatever I had seen, wasn’t me. I know myself, or at least I think I do. I can feel the soft curves of my face, and the way my cheeks dimple in when I smile. When I purse my lips I can tell they’re plump, but gentle. I may not be the walking example of Eve, but I know that I am beautiful. But, if my hands stay on my skin for too long, my mind grows confused. I know my face is round, but my hands feel jagged bones that pop from my jaw. Fuzz grows from places it doesn’t belong, and something lumpy is rising from somewhere on my forehead. I can’t take it anymore, I have to look, I have to know what I look like. But then again, when I look it into the mirror, I feel someone else. His face, like a chiseled stone is wide and jagged. His lips, akin to mine, are large yet his spark intimidation, and over his top lip hair sprouts like leaves on a chia pet. But now I see it what I’ve been feeling all along, my, I mean his lump. A large, hairy brown mole was crawling out of his head. I take a deep breath, half expecting it to fall off his forehead and claw its way toward me. I turn my head sideways, testing the mirrors reflexes, but the man across from me passes. I jump twice, and lead into a spin, my back facing the mirror. As my view creeps over my shoulder and back at the mirror, I can see the man on the other side doing the exact same thing. Our bewildered expressions the same, the fuzzy patches on our neck itching, and that damn mole, just sitting there mocking us. This can’t be right. Who is this brutish figure looking at me? Is this who I am? Who I’m meant to be? Maybe the way I feel isn’t the same as the way I feel. __
There’s no way he could ever really love her. Especially when I was the last he had, My skin was clear, possessing a delicate sheen, while hers was furry and freckled like some sort of rodent. My hair was neat, straight, and blonde, while hers curled into various rat burrows all over her oblong head. I think he just did it just to spite me. He knew he could never do better so he went dumpster diving and pulled out the first scraps he could find. I feel sorry for him, I really do. I would cry myself to sleep if I kissed those thin cracked lips every night. And god, who taught her to smile, a serial killer? I’m sure those jagged teeth are perfect for eating old beer cans and styrofoam. I just don’t understand why he did this to himself. Why reach for something so low? He must really hate himself… or maybe he really does hate me. He wanted to show me how easily replaceable I really was. If he really is happy with that rat, then what does that make me?!? My mom always told me my eyes were enough to woo any man, so why aren’t they doing anything now? She must have some hold over him, maybe she’s keeping him hostage, or hurting him in some way. And now it’s up to me to save him…
Mrs Carson always was my favorite math teacher, She was kind, yet ferocious. You couldn’t miss a lesson. So when the stabbing pain began, I sat strong at my desk. My ribs curled over the spike being driven in my side. I slammed my fist into the desk, taking a deep breath in. Just the one class, that’s all I needed to make it through. My eyes didn’t wander from the board but my mind yelped, The equations tip toeing around the constant feeling of nausea. Finally we saw it was time to go, I hobbled as fast as I could. Stepping out of our temporary card board trailer, I fled down the metal walk way. My mind fell blank to be greeted by a nurse in the ER. Kidney stones lay stuck in my side. No sign of when they’d be out. All I had to rely on were prescription pain killers, the light kind. They turned the stabs into dull flicks, knives into rubberbands. Then there I was again, in Mrs. Carson’s room, ready for a lesson. Yet the fog, so hazy kept my mind polluted. The numbers fading from thoughts entirely. There was no fighting this, the drug ran deep in my veins. More than a week had passed before I was free, Broken up into dust, the stones had left. Back in that cardboard trailer my mind was finally clear, Only still, a week behind in all my fields.