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"Mama, do I have to be a car cleaner when I grow up?"
With curiosity, a young boy gazed at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Gripping a small stool with grazed hands, he could barely see over the sink, but he did see his mother behind him, carefully brushing leaves out of his hair with a comb. She chuckled at his question, gently cupping his full cheeks.
"You can be whatever you want, mój kochanie," she said softly, looking at her son through the mirror. As she smiled, her honey-brown eyes gleamed.
Matt pouted, thinking, while his mother went back to expertly weaving her hands through his messy crop of hair. Her quiet humming harmonised with the buzzing of the old lightbulb that illuminated the room with a faint yellow-tinged glow.
"But Dad's a car cleaner... and so was Grandpa. so I gotta be one too!"
The little boy jumped in his seat, swivelling to face the woman who raised him. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly as she chose her next sentence, thinking about the best way to convince him.
But her concerned expression melted away as she locked eyes with her son; a boy so hopeful and excited. A boy full of potential. A boy who she believed could do anything.
Matt still stared at her expectantly, grinning. His mother sighed, and reached out to pick him up.
"Oh, Matteus. what will I do with you?" she placed him down so his hair was easily accessible once more. He giggled as the comb tickled his neck.
"You are your own person, maleńki," his mother soothed, "Whatever your father does, it doesn't define you."
At the same sink, rinsing a bruise on his wrist with cold water, Matt thought about that moment for the millionth time in his life. The black and blue stains that littered his body were a testament to his father's attempts to bring him down. His head throbbed. His arm stung. It was hard to separate himself from the monster that was his so-called dad, especially when he left reminders of what he could do every other fucking day.
Shutting the tap off with a grazed hand, the light bulb that hung above him penetrated the silence with an angry buzz.
"Whatever your father does, it doesn't define you."
Though he wanted to believe her, Matt couldn't help but think that mantra was wrong. He sunk slowly downwards, leaning his body weight on the sink. His arms cradled his head, the cold ceramic shooting through his skin. Staring at the bathroom floor, the boy put together a realisation that made his stomach churn.
All those times he had made someone bleed over something small, his father's influence puppeteered Matt like a sadistic ventriloquist. By trying his hardest to veer away from his dad's tendencies by toughening his exterior, Matt had just become more like the man he despised the most.
Carefully, he raised his head to look in the mirror. It was a pathetic sight, seeing himself slouched in front of the sink like a drunkard. The dark hair on his head was sticking out in all different directions, and a red patch on his forehead was darkening into another reminder.
Matt crinkled his nose, scrunching his sore face. This horrid excuse of a reflection gave him all the reason to completely disregard what his mother had told him all those years ago.
Maybe this was all he was destined for. Maybe if he stuck it out long enough, proved he wasn't weak, his dear old dad might change. Even better, maybe he'd change.
Throat clogging, Matt shut his eyes. Hopefully when he opened them he'd see anyone but his father.