ONE EYED BOY [C. Grimes][Rarl]

dog

Warnings: Nudity, Vomit, Self loathing

The reflective surface of the mirror is too clean and spotless for me to look in. I see every flaw in myself with a single glance. My hair is shoulder length and matted with blood, dirt and god knows what else. I can smell myself, and I smell like death left to bake in the sun. The normal smell of body odor is one thing, but I smell of sweat, vomit, blood, and rotten food all at once. I glance away from the mirror, leaning on the marble, trying not to work myself up. With a heavy breath, I look again. The first thing I notice are my scars. My upper lip is nicked permanently from a close call with a knife, and the right side of my face has suffered from years back where I picked at the scabs of a wound that hurt my mind more than my body. I tried to forget about the scars, preferring not to revisit those memories.

I slowly turn the faucet on, watching in amazement as clean, clear water streams out.

Washing clean of blood takes a long time and I find myself without warm water fairly quickly. Not that I care too much. The shower feels nice anyway. The water runs black and brown for 15 minutes and my hair takes an hour to untangle and wash. Looking at myself nude in the mirror is also hard. There are scars on my bare chest too; peppered buck shot wounds where I took a hit to the stomach when I was 10. Those memories aren't happy either. I'm lean, I can tell that much. I'm not ripped or anything special, I never ate enough to gain weight to do that. There was never enough food. I'm more toned from months of battling to survive. It's not prettying, looking strong but malnourished. It looks awkward and a bit frightening. I blink at my reflection, finding that I don't want to leave the bathroom. I don't want people to see me clean and not covered in weeks worth of dirt to hide. The idea of acting like a normal human again scares me. Anxiety bubbles in my stomach before the stench of my still dirty clothes catches in my nose.

I spend the next few minutes dry heaving over the toilet bowl, elbows resting on the seat with my head in my hands, running through my now untangled hair. I hear the door open and I feel soft hands rubbing my back as I spit up more bile, head bowed over the lid.

"Just breathe, Carl..." Mich whispers, rubbing slow circles as I hold back the painful tears as stomach acid burns my throat.

I've always had a bit of social anxiety, coming off as shy around strangers, but this is downright humiliating. I'm horrified of interacting with the flawless and unharmed people of Alexandria.