“You are not your father…” the words camped on in his head yet he doubted it. Everytime he stared at the mirror he saw it, he was his father’s son.
His father wasn’t a drunk, he lived in alcohol. It was abnormal for him to be sober, being sober was being drunk in his world.
Tare stood before the mirror, his reflection not smiling. The swollen lips he had felt but couldn’t see was there, together with black eyes and broken nose. They all peered at him.
“You are not your father… but I am my father’s son…,” Tare said to himself. His teeth met his lips, the man in the mirror did same. He let his swollen lips part ways and blew hot air from his mouth. The air brushed the mirror, and tattooed an irregular pattern on it. Masking the face of the man in the mirror briefly.
“How did I get here?” The question wasn’t strange anymore. He had asked himself that several times, but the answer is a question in itself.
He turned the tap on and the water gushed out in jet stream. His hands sunk in the sink as he washed them clean, then scooped some water on his palms and poured them on his face. After which, his head dug in, the tap become a shower, boundary cooling his head.
“I am not my father,” He tried to convince himself but the words were bald, they weren’t convincing enough. The man in the mirror stared back, asking; “are you sure?”
The answer to that he didn’t say, fear of the truth gripped him, taunting him all the way.
Tare closed his eyes briefly — he couldn’t bear to see the man in the mirror anymore. The words the man in the mirror didn’t say but was loud enough to hear, deafened him.
So he took a walk, mind only — he remained fixed where he stood but as his eyes closed he wandered. He saw his father; black eyes, swollen lips, broken nose and bullet in head. Sprawled on a CR’s floor, blood stained tiles underneath him.
Epiphany! Tare then realized who he truly was, it was a choice. He was his father’s son, but being his father was not the same thing.
His eyelids parted, gazed fixed at the man in the mirror and these words fell out. “On my own I will fail, but I choose not to be what people believe I would be. I refuse to accept the script written for me. God, you are the master Chess player, no move is wrong to you. You can always correct any error I make, I accept I must face the consequences of certain actions but still at the end I will win. Take it all and let me live…”
With that, he walked out of the CR. Down the hallway laced with smooching couples way past second base, across the hall with blinking lights, wriggling strippers, choking cigarette fumes, and stepped out into the dark night. He knew this is it, change has come and though he might stumble, he resolved not to be his father. His life was his alone to live.
CR : Comfort Room/ Rest Room or in simple words, Public toilet.
Epiphany : A sudden realisation, revelation or understanding of something.
Cover Photo by TheIncurableOptimist
PS : It was another Mother’s day few days ago, and WORRYPHILIA – Another Word For MOTHER reminded us how priceless mother’s are. Do click and read.