Through the Looking Glass, or Exorcisms

I'd never liked overhead lighting. It didn't reflect the mood, whatever it was. That evening, I preferred to turn on the small desk lamp, tilting the bulb down, dimming the light. It wasn't even about conveying my feelings. It didn't matter to me anyway. I just wanted it to be cozy, despite everything.

I placed the full-length bathroom mirror on my desk and sat across from it. I wanted to see it. That face again. I lowered my gaze, but he was still there, unchanging, despite all my attempts. I wanted to change him so badly, to reconcile with him. But it didn't work, I gave up and ran away. And finally, I couldn't look him in the face anymore. How many times can you make the same mistakes...?

Finally, I looked up; I had nothing to lose. I tried to endure this time, to bear his gaze. I already had the upper hand. It seemed to me that he was softening, that maybe I should try again instead of giving up...

Then I saw a change in his expression. My features hardened, and I felt something like a slap in the face. It reminded me why we were both stuck in this room, sitting across from each other. It was about her. My girlfriend, the woman of my life. I'm perfectly aware it sounds cliché.

I'd only recently begun to realize it. I'd doubted for a long time—not out of reluctance or insincerity, but out of fear. That this wasn't it, not entirely, that there was someone, something, destined for me, and this was by no means the feeling I was experiencing. But now I knew. This was that feeling, that person. I didn't believe in fairy tales of love at first sight, of certainty, of incomprehensible illumination. I felt I truly loved because I'd verified it, reassured myself over and over again. All paths always led to her.

But perhaps I was too weak. I hurt her for no reason, for lack of willpower. I couldn't deny myself another body, no matter how much I loved hers. I wandered, getting more and more entangled, falling into my own web. I know it always ends badly, that I'm not telling you anything new. But for the person experiencing it, it's always new. Like when you lose a loved one in a car accident. You feel as if no one else has experienced it before. Because our experience, contrary to appearances, is only what we experience ourselves. We don't learn from others' mistakes. We don't benefit from others' experiences, rejecting them and relying on our own. And perhaps rightly so. Otherwise, it would be scary to leave the house. But on the other hand, we're not completely prepared for anything, for anything. And we can't brace ourselves for the blow, because life is always a faster opponent.

I couldn't prepare myself either, I couldn't explain to myself that one day it would all go to hell, and I would pay for it with my M. – with what's most important in my life.

Of course, I could have somehow extricated myself from the situation. I could have continued to dodge and run, but at some point I realized I'd crossed a line beyond which the door slams shut behind you, and you can only go further, further into your own imperfection. There simply comes a point when you have to do something right and completely honestly. You have to be unafraid to lose your edge and possess what some call moral courage. Because good intentions put you in the same league as Lord Jim, and that's not good company in the long run. Eventually, you slowly die to yourself, and the face in the mirror kills you anew with every glance.

I finally realized that I had crossed that line long ago, and that parasitism on Her sincere, selfless, and touching goodness was the worst option. I was running not only from the truth, but also from myself.

There's no point pretending I'd decided to change that. That would have been too noble; I would have had grounds to rise from the depths of my cowardice. I would have accidentally concluded that I was, in fact, the hero of this story. People tend to consider their responsibilities as merits, and their mistakes as minor lapses. I was no different in that regard. The reason for the change was different. It was simply that part of what I had been through had come to light. It shook the foundations of our relationship, which, like any other, was supposedly based on trust. It revealed how well I could lie straight to the face. I didn't let on that it hurt, and now I'm not sure if it truly hurt. I was a gambler, a casino cheater caught red-handed. And the remnants of conscience I clung to weren't even enough to reassure myself anymore. Let alone her. She was too good to me, and that was probably her mistake. I loved that kindness, but I was also exploiting it. I don't know if it will change anything, but I felt sorry for her like I'd never felt for anyone before. I felt sorry for the naivety and innocence I'd robbed her of. I felt like I'd left a bleeding virgin on the bed and left without a word.

There was no screaming, no hatred. Even then, she didn't hate me. It would have been easier for me. Maybe for her, too.

In any case, when I couldn't wander any longer and my back was pressed against the cold wall, I admitted the accusations against me. I knew that in her seemingly infinite goodness I would find redemption and forgiveness, but I no longer had the strength, and in this case, the remnants of my so-called conscience and honor wouldn't allow me to count on forgiveness. But I don't acknowledge this as my own merit. And back then, I can honestly admit, I didn't either. Perhaps because I had nothing left to lose. If so, then again I can't bring a pure heart into it. Actually, I guess I never can. There's always some hidden motive, a hidden depth that we try to cover up with a pure heart and an unclouded conscience. But it's there in the subconscious, and we know it—we know it perfectly well, despite everything, constantly deceiving ourselves. We've simply become accustomed to the slight pressure of conscience, somewhere in our subconscious. We've become so accustomed to it that we believe it has to be this way, that it's the natural state of affairs. Sometimes, however, this hematoma, pressing against our noble, flawless selves, resonates in our dreams, haunts us, causes anxiety. It shows us ourselves in the mirror, in full light, naked. But we wake up eventually, every bad dream ends, we breathe heavily, telling ourselves with relief that it's only a dream.

By then, it's usually too late to change anything. And rarely does anyone rise like a phoenix from the ashes and begin anew. I didn't start.

What I decided to do is done by people who, with any remnants of morality, can no longer bear themselves. Well, no, maybe I'm generalizing too much. That's simply why I did it. With what seemed to me to be my full mental and physical capacity, I fetched a mirror from the bathroom, placed it on the desk in front of me, and reached for the razor blade I'd stolen from my father.

I twirled it in my fingers for a moment. I was careful not to cut myself, which was completely pointless under the circumstances.

Now I was no longer afraid of the face peering through the glass. "I brought you here to show I'm capable of this," I thought. This was my final fight, the outcome of which was a foregone conclusion.

I even smiled at him. It seemed I was slowly losing touch with reality. The face in the mirror responded with a mocking smile, as if to say, "You won't." But I was determined, and he must have sensed it too. Putting on a good face for a bad game, he tried to bluff, but it was all for naught. The thought of final victory brought me immense satisfaction, even though I also knew the price I would have to pay.

My hand trembled. I was no longer hesitant; I was too intoxicated by my victorious plan, yet something gripped my chest. Fear of pain, which, however, didn't last long, for I also saw fear in my enemy, and that ultimately motivated me. I wanted to destroy the coward at all costs, hiding on the other side of the mirror, whom I so utterly despised.

I was close to happiness, and I certainly felt relief that for once I was going to triumph.

I raised the razor blade to my face, showing it to my opponent. But he didn't seem to lose his nerve. He also threatened me with the sharp blade, fully aware that we would both fall in this game.

Further delaying such a simple act seemed pointless. I looked at him, noticing a shadow of doubt and nervous anticipation that almost imperceptibly crossed his face. I guess he didn't quite believe I would do it. That signal was a threshold stimulus for me.

I placed the razor blade against my wrist. I felt something like a cool thread on my skin. I looked at him. "I'll watch you die," flashed through my mind.

I don't remember the exact moment my consciousness sent the impulse to my other hand, holding the sharp instrument. I simply felt a sting. It hurt.

I reflexively opened my eyes, which I must have involuntarily closed earlier. He was looking at me with a grimace of pain on his face. I was triumphant. I wanted to withdraw my hand, but a terrifying thought flashed through my mind: if not triumph, then my final and greatest defeat. I pressed harder with the hand holding the razor blade.

The fingers holding the cold piece of metal were white from the nervous grip, on the front lines of the fight against pain. Absurdly, the thought of the contrast of red and white spreading across my palm entered my half-conscious mind. Blood followed the path of gravity down my right hand, dripping onto the floor between my stiff fingers.

I pulled my hand a little further, bringing the cut line, now invisible beneath the stream of blood, to the edge of my wrist. The razor blade froze, protruding unnaturally from the slashed skin.

The blood flowed more boldly now, and even the pain, which had radiated throughout my entire body, seemed to diminish.

With each passing moment, the light grew darker, my vision diminishing. The brown fluid leaking from my body became simply black.

With a great effort, I raised my gaze to the mirror before me. It was worth it. His half-open eyelids showed suffering and pain. He was dying.

I'm not sure, but I thought I tasted the sweet taste of triumph in my mouth.