Jesse

32: Reflections

32: Reflections

            Reflections don't lie. One of the few things, you can count on to not lie. They show what things really are. No matter what they are. How badly it's broken, or beyond repair. Without reflections none of us in this world would know what we looked like. And so we wouldn't care. It would be a completely different world.

            But reflections exist, because we exist. Without them we wouldn't be able to see. And understand. To know.

            I thought this while I stared at my own reflection in Ian's mirror above his chest of drawers. Stared speechless at how much it had changed. My own face. Over time. Because of everything that happened. I couldn't believe it. I didn't look like myself at all, whoever that was. Who was this Jesse? I looked so much uglier. All of the beatings, abusing—all of the hurt, bleeding, and bruises had taken their undeniable toll; they had left their irremovable marks. Scars.

            Subtle changes in the way my eye drooped. The deeper creases of rings beneath my eyes. The crack in my lips. My left eye had been extremely swollen and blackened beyond recognition. The first time I saw my face as truly was frightening, after my last fight with Harold; I felt scarred beyond repair. That was two months ago.

            It was hard to believe. So much time had passed since then. In some ways it felt like a strange, horrifying nightmare. Still just as vivid, and terrifying. Now it was no longer yellow, or swollen. It just looked different. A bad different. But Ian denied any of this; he said I shouldn't be so hard on myself. But I was ugly now. Not to say I was much to look at before. I hated looking at myself. Maybe I just hated myself in general. Everything I had done or did. Or would ever do.

            It was December, nearing the Christmas Holidays. The world now reflected how I felt inside. Cold, barren, and brittle. Like the life had been sucked out of everything. All of autumn's golden fiery brilliance of leaves had fallen, scattered away with the harsh winds. The trees were only skeleton testaments of a better time, of a once better life.

            The skies were now mostly gray: tumultuous, and ominous; the clouds were hanging, sagging—over-bloated, heavy with the weight of rain. The days passed. Coming and going. But I felt nothing. It was just one long, sunless day. Which never ended.

            The physical pain now was only minimal. Most of it gone. The hurting in my chest and side only bothered me sometimes at night, and when I pulled a muscle wrong. My jaw popped here and there sometimes. But on the inside I was still just as broken…still bleeding. I had hoped it would fade away with the pains, but I realized it was becoming worse. The hurt in my heart growing too widespread, the depression and longing to be free, faulting too deep.

            Sometimes, I was beginning to understand, some pains, some hurts cut—stabbed too deep. Some pains only became worse. Some bruises never truly healed. The ones on the inside. Internal scars. All covered up by the one sentence I kept telling myself, to keep going, to keep getting up, to keep living this life: "I'll be okay." If not now, someday. Someday.

            Even if my Dad hated me. Even if my Dad beat the hell out of me. Even if my Dad spat in face. Even if my Dad cursed my name. Even if my Dad no longer called me his son—he was still my Dad. Nothing could change that. Blood was blood. No matter how much I hated the fact. And I hadn't gotten to say goodbye. I didn't know when I would ever see him again, after his trial.

            The Greenes had driven me to the local court house where it would be held. I was called by my lawyer, who was hired by Ian's Mom, as the first witness to the stand against Harold—and my battered body was enough evidence alone, for the judge, I could tell by his aghast expressions. I had put my hand on the Bible and gave my account to the court as best and truthful as I could. There were dark mutters of awe and gasping, here and there amongst the crowd: spiteful glares at my own father for what he had done to me.