"You used to love it, Tommy." They said. "If you want the old you back you have to get back into her habits." They whined.
And she gave in.
A year after a hard divorce, Tommy Roy finds herself agreeing to go clubbing with her best friends.
The nigh...
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One year and three weeks later...
In my big house of which is new and all mine, I have three mirrors. One in each of the three bathrooms. There are no mirrors in my room or in the hallway or some other unnecessary place.
Why? Because after the shit-show circus of marriage I was in a year ago I can't stand to look at myself in the mirror for too long. I've broken five mirrors just because I didn't like what stared back at me. I hated what stared back at me. That woman wasn't me. She barely ever laughed or even smiled. She couldn't even smirk for the God's sake. She was hollow, she was practically lifeless but living almost like the undead.
Her voice was always so cold and unwelcoming. She threw herself into her work for the past year and worked out a lot, more with the purpose to learn how to kill than to get fit. This woman was a lot skinnier than the Tommy that once was six years ago. She's skinny because she works out a little too much and eats too little.
This Tommy isn't the Tommy I once was. I don't like this Tommy but I can't change her because I don't know how to change her.
Therapy doesn't necessarily work for all. I've tried letting my shit out but it proved too hard and I eventually just said, "Well fuck it," and never returned.
I never really look into the mirror and even if I were to face up when I brushed my teeth I would just stare at the beautiful wall before me.
My mirrors in the bathrooms are hidden in a cabinet. I look into that mirror once a month to see if I still look like myself. I don't.
And today is the second time this month I'm looking into a mirror. I need the mirror to do this or I'll just end up looking like I let my nephew cut my hair.
Why am I cutting my hair? I don't want to look like the Tommy that Fredrick abused and killed. And also because my hair has grown too long for my liking and I'm unwilling to go to a salon because I don't want to.
How long is too long for hair? Past the waist, past your hips? Past your ass is too long for me. I know some girls would love it a little longer but I'm not like those full of life females.
Chopping the last chunk of hair I drop it onto the floor. Looking straight into the mirror to examine my work I shrug slightly feeling okay with my work.
Not too bad I guess.
Walking back to my supplies closet in the downstairs hall to fetch a broom, my doorbell rings like a maniac is at the door. Which in my defence, the people are sort of maniacs.
I quickly make a beeline for the foyer and swing the door open before my family and friends break my doorbell.
"What holiday is it, Christmas?" I raise an eyebrow at the herd of people standing on my porch.
