The stranger in the mirror | Wattys2016

(2) She

She's 30-ish (I actually don't know her exact age, never bothered to remember it - even if she isn't 30, she looks like it), her figure is short and plump and she doesn't put any effort into her appearance; in case you're wondering what I mean: she doesn't bother to wear make-up, which I think is a big mistake, she wears glasses because she finds contacts uncomfortable, she doesn't straighten her hair - she doesn't do anything at all about her curly chaos, for that matter; and worst of all, she's always wearing worn out trainers and jeans and, frequently, men's shirts. Her hips don't sway elegantly when she walks - her stride is brusque and purposeful, and way too hasty, you have a hard time keeping up with her.

Her name's Oxy - well, not really, of course; her actual name is Alex, but Oxy is her online alias, and since we met online and mostly communicate online, that's what I call her. What she was going for with that, no one really knows; oxymoron, oxytocin...Oxy as in 'oxygen', maybe? Something that everyone depends on; that'd suit her. She's helper syndrome personified. Anyway, we all have an alias, so I'm not going to question hers any further; I'm John Doe when I'm online. I like to introduce myself as "My name's Doe, John Doe" - pretty cool, right? But what I was going for with that, no one really knows, either.

Oxy is a lawyer, she specializes in environmental law, works for some NGO and does a lot of pro bono work. And when she's not busy wasting her time on unpaid work, she does all kinds of other ridiculously naive helpful stuff - you'll find her taking dogs from an animal shelter out for walks or, every once in a while, playing a clown at a children's hospital. That kind of stuff. And oh man, can she get on your nerves with her obsessive do-gooder-act - but at root, she's quite okay. Some day, she found me and decided she'd set out to fix me, too, and occasionally, that sticks in my craw; just because I take up her time doesn't mean my life's any of her business. Right?

At the moment, I'm just annoyed that she's still awake; granted, I'm still chatting with her. But for fuck's sake, I want her to leave - I want her to say that she's tired and that she's going to bed now. But she won't do that. She just sits there and reads everything I say and, like a good girl, sends back answers. She knows that I can't sleep - in fact, she's fully aware that I can't sleep in spite of the handful of sleeping pills I just washed down with a glass of wine before bringing out the hard liquor.

You see, I've got pretty much everything here, in my inconspicuous bathroom cabinet - Alpralozam amongst other benzodiazepines, SSRIs, you name it. To me, it looks like a shelf in a candy shop, full of colourful hard candies, except these aren't wrapped quite as nicely. But the thing is, they're not always equally effective - some nights, I take one or two and doze off, other nights it take three or four of them to fall asleep, and then there are nights where none of it does the trick. I think you just have to experiment a little.

Oxy doesn't get it, though - she doesn't understand this stuff, so it always makes her nervous; don't take that with alcohol, she says, or you really really mustn't combine those two, or please, now give it 20 minutes before you take another one, you know they can't possible take effect this quickly! I keep telling her which and how many pills I take; it makes her worry about me, which means I'm not the only one who's having a hard time that night - that's something, right?

Tonight, I'm through with everything in my little candy cabinet, and I'm not even yawning; I'm not calm, either. Not that 'calm' is a good description of the state the pills usually induce; 'numb' is more fitting. Anyway, she tries to distract me; tells me about her plans for tomorrow. Hospital, again. I'm really not in the mood - neither for listening to that, nor for knowing that she's sitting at her computer and pitying me.