Dirty

He inhales deeply, relishing the constricted, almost painful sensation in his chest as the smoke caresses his lungs. He pauses, holding his breath, choking back a cough. Slowly, he exhales through his nose, watching the smoke exit his body and fade away, becoming one with the air around him. Briefly, he wonders why he never smoked before. Oh yea. It's bad for you.

He sighs, casting a small glance at himself in the mirror. Not liking what he sees, he looks away, brings the cigarette back to his lips, sucking on its remains. He holds his breath again, longer this time, wondering what would happen to the smoke if he never breathes again. Would it stay with him forever or would it exit his lungs as soon as his body gave up?

A nearly empty bottle sits on the counter beside him. He grabs it, taking a large mouthful, enjoying the burn as the liquor slides down his throat, lighting his body on fire. He relishes the feeling. Relishes any feeling.

Cautiously, he turns to his right. There, on the far side of the counter, a bright orange bottle, a glowing break in the never-ending white of the bathroom.

It sits patiently, waiting for him. It knows his thoughts, his intentions. His guilt. It knows that he will turn to it, eventually. And so it waits.

He inhales again, deeply. Wishes he had another cigarette. Still staring at the bottle, he wonders if he could borrow one from someone. No, best to stay put, lest he lose his nerve and leave altogether.

He glares at the all-knowing bottle. Should he give in? Or should he go back out, join his friends, forget what happened? No, he can never forget.

Outside the room, a love song plays. It is low, dramatic. Pointless. Love? Does it even exist? How could it? Or does it only exist for others? For those who are clean? Is it something he can never have? Something he will never deserve.

He listens, wondering if anyone has noticed his absence. The song changes, gets louder. He hears singing.

Slowly, he tears his eyes away from the orange bottle, choosing to take in his surroundings.

Directly across from him, a mirror covers most of the wall, reflecting the only color in the room. Him. Him and the orange bottle.

The rest of the room is white. Bright, blinding white. The floors, the walls, the furnishings. Everything. All pure. Perfect.

He wonders what his blood would look like splattered across the floor, the walls, the furnishings. His mind flashes back, briefly, to another's blood, in a different place. Would they cry over his blood as they had cried over that blood? Or would they cry over the room?

He inhales, focusing on the movements of his chest as he breathes. Thin and sickly, his ribs protrude from his flesh, nearly visible under his thin shirt. He looks directly into the mirror, trying to force himself to meet his own gaze.

He hesitates, looks to his clothing instead. Light gray sweatpants and a light gray shirt. He sticks out, a dirty smudge in the bright room. And then there's his hair. It refuses to let him blend in, forcing everyone to see him for the filthy soul that he is. A filthy blotch in a sea of white.

His hair is bright, sky blue. Filthy, matted, plastered to his head. Highlighting his imperfection. His eyes, deep blue, are rimmed with the evidence of sleepless nights. He can't remember the last time he slept. But he remembers the nightmares. His skin is gray, stretched tightly across his face. Further evidence of his imperfection.

He pauses, realizing that he still has not made eye contact with himself. Weakness. He is weak, has always been weak. Gritting his teeth, he forces his head up, determined to look into his own eyes. Into his own soul. His own filth.

He stares into his eyes.

Murderer.

He blinks, fighting tears. Too late for that now. Deftly, he reaches for the lonely orange bottle beside him. Slowly, he brings the bottle to his lips, still staring at himself in the mirror.

He pauses when he realizes that no one has come to look for him. But why should they? Outside the room he can hear them, laughing, celebrating life.

Life.

Blinking back more tears, he flicks his wrist, dumping the orange bottle's contents into his mouth and quickly downing the rest of the liquor. This time he does not feel the burn. He doesn't feel anything at all.

Sighing once more, he pulls himself onto the counter, leaning back against the wall, still watching himself. His tears finally break through his defenses, his body's last attempt to cleanse his filthy soul. But they come too late. He is dirty. So dirty.

After a time, his eyes begin to droop. His head comes forward, his chin now resting on his chest. Tear-streaked, his face relaxes. His eyes close.

Sleep, at last.