Pockets knives, family dynamics.
Her throat is pale and vulnerable while the gulps greedily. The sharpened pocket knife tucked in my waistband is cold and heavy. Jet black eyelashes cast shadows under her lavender lids, a sickly kind of pretty. She ducks her head back down.
“I said, fuck off.” She repeats.
I heed the warning, dashing away like a ghost to my private shambles of dirty clothes and faded memories. Each little step closer to the door wretches a tear, streaking a filthy face, pathetic and feeble. Once inside, the mirror across from the entryway jeers. Feeling apathetic to the pain, I walk up to the reflection. The boy in front of me is sniveling, pitiable.
Fuck I hate myself.
Yeah. Well step in line you piece of shit, the glass answers back, lacking the luster needed to make the statement true to life. He sniffs, bringing a hand up to his nose. He wipes away the snot.
“Stop talking to yourself you crazy asshole, fuck,” I reply.
“No wonder everyone hates you.”
“Oh fuck you.”
“I mean.” The mirror pauses, biting his lip as his burning eyes pierce mine.
“Fuck me.” I finish.
“Yeah.” He agrees.
“Fuck me.” I say, concluding.
I watch, unaffected, while the boy pulls the pocket knife from his pants. He smiles, genuine and almost pleasant.
The blade flies at the mirror.