Anger Management [Meloghia]

Chapter 42: Man in the Mirror

The ceiling was wrong.

The cracks and unsanded spots from quick fix-it spackle jobs were absent. Smooth, white plaster ceiling stared back at him. The images he'd grown fond of staring at as he drifted off each night were simply gone. The walls were the wrong color too. Before he'd even opened his eyes, Illuso knew something was off. The bed was too soft and the room felt too warm. There was a faint floral smell about the sheets that left him more confused than ever.

He sat up and pain erupted through his head, even his muscles felt sore. He blinked and winced, the room was too bright. Where the fuck—? What—? Something moved against his leg and he turned to see a woman's leg over his. She had gorgeous chestnut hair and was tangled in the sheets, but it was not the sight of the foreign woman in bed with him that left him feeling nauseous. Next to her lay Formaggio with a pink-haired woman sleeping on his chest.

Disparate images flashed through his mind.

Skin on his. Hands gliding over curves with just enough give to make him crave more. Heat from another close behind. Mellifluous words from a voice at his ear, egging him on as the brunette spreads herself before him. A hard grip on his face and then a mouth on his. But it's too rough. Too chapped to be those of the women surrounding him.

His eyes fell on the chest of his best friend. It rose and fell, keeping time as it passed. The seconds before Illuso would have to process and grapple with what had occurred last night. What it would mean, for both himself and Formaggio. The light gleamed through the black lace curtains and played upon the lashes of his friend and highlighted the pink mess of hair at his neck in a halo of light. Here, at this juncture, things existed peacefully, in a moment untouched by things to come. A moment that perhaps if Illuso weren't so hungover, he might find beauty in.

He kicked off the covers and stood up looking around the room. Clothes lay splayed across the floor but he was having a hard time finding his. After some searching, he did manage to discover his pants on the other side of the bed. His shirt was a more difficult find, a search which ended in the living room where he found a bra and Formaggio's vest also scattered about. He grabbed the bundle and headed past the bed and into the master bath. Upon walking in, he had already made his first mistake.

He looked at the mirror.

His neck and chest were littered with bruises. Must have been rough, but Illuso still couldn't remember most of it. Yet his body certainly recalled everything. The ache in his muscles indicated that last night had indeed been wild. He gazed back into his own face. He looked tired, eyes redder than usual, and watery.

Ugly bastard.

Why had he looked? He'd gotten so good at avoiding it. Perfected the art of looking through himself to get ready in the mornings. To see without seeing. It was something Formaggio had suggested at one point early on in his recovery process.

"Sometimes... I don't know. I just... lose myself in there." Illuso had stared at the glass before him. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder.

"Then don't look, bro," Formaggio smiled half-heartedly.

"But I need it." He hoped Formaggio would think he meant his stand.

"Then look through it." Formaggio placed his open palm parallel to his nose and then extended his arm towards the mirror. "It's a means to an end, man. Nothing more."

So that's what he did. It worked for a time. He got better. He didn't see himself anymore, especially if he just focused on a spot on the center of his face, everything else just vanished after a while. His mood steadily improved and he was back to snooping and sharing his latest finds with Formaggio or Melone. It wasn't until the stress really hit him that he had relapses.