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When Rich breathes for the first time since destroying his bathroom mirror, it’s jagged. It’s being ripped from inside his lungs, trapped with the last words he wishes to scream at the next person who tries to interact with him.
His quick, green eyes flick around the tiny space, taking in his most recent bout of destruction. Mirror shards strewn about the cheap tile, the dirty floor. Oddly, it’s relieving, when he doesn’t think about having to clean it all up. All the week’s anger gone with a small price.
It’s been months since the fire, and Rich is still not used to his reflection mocking him; the burns that destroyed his once “pretty face” stretch across patches of his skin, corrupting the freckled flesh and eating every ounce of confidence he’d gained in the past three years.
It makes sense for Rich to hate his reflection. It makes sense to hate himself and wish he was dead.
You’ll learn to love it someday, some voice of reason tries to get through to him; a ghost of a friend’s voice, traces of a voice quirk stored in there somewhere.
Yeah, right. Being stuck in a body like this is already bad enough.
A sick reflection brings out the worst in Rich. Maybe the ugliest thing about him is how he inherited all of this from him. His tendency to break things when he’s mad, temper taking full control at the slightest things; not to mention the addiction gene. Some sick part of Rich feeds off the anger—it’s almost like he can’t go a single day without it.
Without the squip, where’s the anger supposed to go? How does he deal with the rage sweltering inside when he’s trying to stay clean?
How does he hide the dents in the walls, the bruises on his hands, and choke back the screaming ache of his throat?
And why does the pain feel so relieving, but only when it’s self-inflicted?
All of these questions, and there’s still no solid answer.
Screaming matches shake off the anger, leave him vulnerable and guilty enough to use, and it’s all the same thing again. Despite the walls he put up, things get under Rich’s skin. Soon, his fists find comfort being put into walls, just how his father’s fists seek solace in him. All those unwanted touches go away for a while when Rich puts holes through the cheap drywall of his room, washed away with the god-awful angry tears that follow.
Cheap-ass house. Fucking destructive tendencies. They can’t even afford to fix this.
This thing inside of him is much bigger than he is. One day, it’ll lead to his downfall—as if he could get any lower than this. This sick monster will eventually drive everyone away, if he doesn't do it himself first, and it won’t be too long until they leave; they always do. And all Rich ever does about it is hurt himself, because he’s too far gone for change.
Maybe he’ll just kill himself again.
Maybe that’s the best option, for everyone and for himself. It’s a violent turn of thoughts, but it’s true. Rich knows nobody would miss him. The world’s better off without another heavily-dependent psycho. Nobody wants someone burnt-up and burnt-out, a risk to public safety that uses words as weapons. Harmful, supposedly soulless. What a fucking freak, they all say when they think he can’t hear, and Rich agrees fully.
He waits, and he lets it fester. All of this rage and hurt will build up, and it’ll get to a point where it’ll drive him fully mad, then that’s when he’ll decide it’s time to go out. All in a single blurry, impulsive decision.
It’ll happen when the time is right.