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How does one cope with never seeing themself when they look in the mirror?
Nathaniel never did like the way he looked. He reminded himself far too much of his father with his natural looks. Those looks were never going to feel like him. But what about the other looks? He'd tried everything. Long hair, short hair, hair of every natural color, contacts of every natural color. He tried dressing in different clothing styles. But as he put his fingers to the mirror against his reflections, staring into his brown eyes, his other hand clutching freshly cut hair on the counter, he realized it still wasn't enough.
Tears blurred his vision. He'd never had this style of hair or had it this short for a while. It was supposed to fix his issues. So why- Why did he still not feel like himself? Like he didn't exist and his reflection was just some person he recognized but had no connection to?
Language to language.
Accent to accent.
Look to look.
Nothing fixed it.
Did he really not exist?
Was all of this a dream?
He hoped it was. He hoped it was so he could wake up. Even if he woke up back in Baltimore. At least maybe he'd finally feel real again. If that was even possible. He couldn't remember the last time he felt like a real person with a real personality. Maybe he'd imagined that feeling ever existed at all.
He slammed his fist on the counter and cleaned up the hair while wiping tears that wouldn't stop rolling down his cheeks. He was fine. He'd get over it and pretend it didn't bother him. Just shove everything down as deep as it could go and then grab a shovel and rip through himself to go even deeper. It didn't matter if he would bleed out. It didn't matter if his organs couldn't be shoved back into his body. It didn't matter, it didn't matter, IT DIDN'T MATTER!
All that mattered was that Nathaniel could keep moving.
Distraction.
That was the solution.
He opened up his German notebook and began studying his previous notes and practicing. Until he stumbled across der, die, and das and his mind ached, the variations of "the" swarming together as he tried to place which one went with what words. It didn't make sense. None of it made sense. Soon every word was spinning around nonstop. Come on. Figure it out. This shouldn't be hard! Come on, you idiot!
The apartment door flung open, startling him. He went back to the notebook, looking at different examples and trying to piece things together. Mary started talking, but he wasn't listening. She snapped a finger in front of him.
"I'm in the middle of something," Nathaniel snapped. His breaths came to a halt, but he brushed the feelings off and tried to regain focus to no avail. The notebook made a soft thud as it hit the floor.
"You have an attitude today. What's wrong with you?" Her voice was so calm. Somehow that made it worse. If she yelled, or grabbed his hair, or threatened him maybe the fear could drown out everything else. Was it really so much to want to feel like something real? He didn't ask for much. Didn't ask to get rid of his memories of Baltimore. Didn't ask to stop running. Didn't ask to be taken care of when he was upset. He accepted that none of that would ever happen, so why couldn't he have this one goddamn thing! Why did Mary have to be so calm? Why, why, why!
"MAYBE NOTHING'S WRONG! MAYBE I DON'T KNOW!"
"You need to calm down."
"I AM CALM," Nathaniel yelled. The tears started up again but didn't fall.
"No you're not. Calm yourself."
"I'M TIRED OF STAYING CALM!" She walked over to the kitchen and started on dishes.
"I have no idea what's wrong with him. He's got such an attitude," she stage-whispered. I'm right here, Mom. I'm right fucking here . She took out the trash a moment later.
Nathaniel slid onto the floor, pulling his hair. He was sixteen. This was not how mature sixteen year olds acted. It was just a haircut. Of course it wouldn't solve his problems. It was stupid to think it might. So fucking stupid. But how much longer could he spend feeling like a lie? Even if it was possible to ever live in a time where they weren't on the run and he didn't have to lie anymore, would he ever be able to feel normal then? What was normal?
Like he determined earlier, it didn't matter.
Because dreaming of happier possibilities was a waste of time.
Get up, Nathaniel.
Get up.
And get over it.
So he did.
He met brown eyes in the mirror, touching his hand to the mirror one more time. And this time when he dropped it and turned away, he accepted, like so many nauseating things before, the hole inside himself would never go away.