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The reflection in the mirror doesn’t match his perception of himself. What he sees isn’t the same as what the world sees. His family. His classmates. The media. The whole country.
They think they know him. Think the dark blonde hair is his pride. That his brown eyes are soft and tender. That his teeth are straight and white. They think the acne scars will go away as he grows from teenager to young adult. They explain his reckless behavior with teenage angst. All teenage boys are stupid, they say. He’ll grow up eventually, start taking his duties more seriously. Stop slamming his head into strangers at the club. Start living in his brother’s shadow and be the perfect prop to put on display. Wear a crown, stay silent and stop dreaming about the most beautiful boy he’s ever had the luck to meet.
Except he doesn’t want that life. The boy in the mirror isn’t him. The picture perfect pretense is ruined by the red veins in his eyes and the dirty button-up with stains of tears. He leans over the sink like he’s done too many times to count. Clutches the edges of porcelain with his hands, fingers grasping at straws of sanity.
He hates it, every part of himself. The hair that looks just like everyone else’s, that blends in everywhere. The eyes that can never tell a lie. The crooked teeth that are never clean. The yellow stains on the edges that the dentist failed to scrape off. The indentations of acne on his cheeks. The scars underneath the new pimples that never stop showing up each morning.
He makes his hands into scalpels, becomes a surgeon. Claws at the skin until it’s red and the yellow pus is replaced by bloodsoaked pieces of skin in the sink. Rips at his hair until his scalp is tender and sore, feels like his feet after being forced to stand all day and greet important people whose names he always fails to remember. His ears are too big. They’ve heard too much of other people’s voices, too little of his own. He can barely remember what his own voice sounds like when it’s not fighting back sobs in bathrooms.
He wonders how Erik does it. How he was born so perfect. How his hair is the perfect shade of brown and his smile the picture of royalness. Wilhelm can only imitate, can only make a fool out of himself as he mimes the behavior he thinks is expected. There’s so many rules. Rules his parents have tried to punch into his head from the moment he was born. Rules he never learns, always forgetting, mind always blank and empty and spinning and full of everything forbidden.
He needs to change. Fix himself. Why didn’t anyone think of it sooner? Why didn’t he get braces before his teeth started to stray? Why didn’t anyone cover his face in expensive acids until it burned the acne out of his skin before it had the chance to fester? Why didn’t anyone cut his hair off and replace it with Erik’s? Why didn’t anyone open his brain and empty it off everything that makes him the way he is and replace it with who they want him to be?
He wonders how tall he will grow to be. Will he match his brother’s height and stand next to him as equals? Will he tower over him, become a giant that needs to be locked up because how dare he think he can be bigger and better than his brother? Will he crumble and fall, shorten like sand until he becomes a child, standing on his tiptoes to reach the podium where he’ll never belong? He hates it. His height. Hates how it makes it easier to look down on people, to become the exact kind of person he’s been raised to be but whom he detests and fears. He hates how it’s difficult to cower and hard to hide. How he’s grown too big for hide and seek.
But he likes how Simon can hide his face in the crook of his neck while sneaking his hands around his torso and feel safe. He likes how Simon makes his body into a home; how he climbs his long limbs until Wille is convinced that having the body of a ladder isn’t so bad when he can become a bridge between two otherwise unreachable polar opposites.
But Simon can’t change the world’s conception of him. The anger burns inside his chest and wants an outlet. He wants to burn the skin off his body until all people can see is his bones, because they’re all the same inside, aren’t they? All bones, blood and vessels. He wants to dig his brain out and put it in a jar. Show it to the world and let it be studied. Magnificent, they’ll say, where did all this hatred come from? He’ll ask them over and over again, whispering, yelling, screaming, demanding to know, how do I fix it?
Sometimes, when they lay side by side like two parts becoming one, Wille wishes Simon could read his mind. His eyes can’t lie, but they can’t speak. He tries. Tries, tries, tries to make Simon understand. Stares at him until Simon has to look away because how does one explain the complex maze of one’s mind to another person with completely different wiring? He can’t pull on the wires, point and say: this is the anger when my feelings aren’t valued because the only way for me to be heard is to scream.
How does he explain that he hates himself because he’s been taught to speak, but punished when having spoken? How it makes him silent, that this is my body shutting down. How does he explain that none of it makes any sense and how it’s unpredictable and makes him cry one moment only to become violent the next? How can he tell Simon to stay away while needing him close? How can he possibly explain that Simon makes him feel like a person whose feelings matter while explaining that his feelings can’t possibly matter because why would they matter to one person but not the rest? What makes Simon an exception? There are never any exceptions.
Except that he’s an exception. He’s the faulty wiring in his family. He’s the troubled, the sick, the twisted, the problem and the diseased needing to be put down. He’s the anxiety. The nerves. The depression. The alcoholic. The queer. How can he be all of those things and belong with people whose blood has always been clean?
Maybe they’ll like him more if he looks the part. He brings the box of drugstore hair dye underneath the light of the bathroom mirror. Dark brown, it says. The man on the box morphs into his brother. You have to be able to pretend. He nods in agreement. He has to be able to pretend.
Dying his hair is more difficult than what he imagined. It would have been smarter to book an appointment with a hairstylist with a good reputation and rich clientele, those ones who know color theory and never have a customer who leaves the salon dissatisfied. But booking an appointment takes time, and he doesn’t want to have to convince his mother that this is what he needs.
He skips the gloves. Time is running out. His reflection is blurry in the mirror. His brother observes from his place on the edge of the sink. Wille opens the bottle, pours the dye straight onto his hair. Screw instructions. It’s not like he can read through the blur, anyway. It’s better this way. More time efficient. He can’t wait to become his brother. He feels taller, already.
The dye burns against his dry fingers. He dyes his head like he washes his hair. Dye acts as shampoo, cleaning the dandruff from his scalp. He scrubs, strands hanging in front of his face. Long, wet, dark brown strands leaking onto his collarbones. He wraps a towel over his shoulders, rubs the dye into the crevices of his head and dyeing the color of his brain until he’s sure he’ll be incapable of thinking another abnormal thought.
He sits down on the floor, leaning against the wall. The floor is dirty now. Red and brown mixing into uglier shades of brown, parts of it similar to the ugliest shade of purple he’s ever seen. His hands are brown, too. Or purple, maybe. Red? He grabs the box from the sink and rubs his eyes, willing them to work. Waiting is agony. How long does he need to wait to become someone else? For someone to like him? To be like everyone else? To become someone who deserves to be loved?
Ten to thirty minutes. Ten, ten sounds too little. Thirty, thirty sounds too much. Twenty, twenty sounds perfect. He counts the minutes on his fingers. Forgets. Messes up. Remembers. Tries again. Counts. Fucks up. Starts over. Has it been twenty minutes now?
He washes the dye off in the shower. Stands underneath the stream with his clothes on. What a terrible feeling. Wet clothes against skin. He shakes it off. The uncomfortableness. It’s easier this way. Faster. Smarter. The floor turns brown, water flowing down the drain. His hair turns soft. His fingers don’t tangle into the ends like they usually do. Swish, swoosh, water down the drain, new hair, new me, new life, am I a new man?
The mirror is foggy. He removes the condensation with his palms. Green. He’s green. His hair is green. How can it be green? He looks like a frog, patchy green hair with the odd blond strand in-between. Who is this patchwork of a person? He grunts, swallows, spits, gags over the sink. Stares at his reflection in the mirror. He looks worse, so much worse than before. What has he done? What does this mean? How can blonde and brown become green? He feels like an ugly toad. He’s not smart. Oh god. He’s stupid. So, so, so stupid. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He’s the user. The abuser. He drinks water from the sink and washes the dye off his face, only smearing it further into the skin until he’s more of a canvas of a person than a human being. Is this really better? Regret flush his mutilated mind. He curses. Shit. Fuck. Jävla fucking skit. He focuses on his face, gaze traveling to his abused cheeks. How can his scars heal when he’s torn them to shreds and cut new ones? How can he let time do whatever it does when he’s always trying to shove it backwards instead of living while it moves forward?
He smiles into the mirror. Why is his reflection always so crooked? Water. He needs more water. He gulps until it runs down his shirt, soaking his skin. It doesn’t matter. His clothes are already a soaked mess. He lets the tap run until bloody pieces of skin and green hair plug the drain and makes the water run past the porcelain onto the floor, cooling his feet. Makes the sharp nails on his toes a bit softer. Drowns the past version of himself and buries the born one between the blood.
He has a moment of clarity amidst the chaos. His reflection is so blurry. Is there anything left of himself to see? Where is the dark blonde hair he’s so proud of? Where are those brown eyes that are softer than sunrays? Where are the crooked teeth with yellow edges that separates him from a crowd? Where are the acne scars like stars on his cheeks, those who fell onto his skin to bring every wish to life? The storm must have passed. What is left to salvage? The ship is wrecked, the sail torn, the captain thrown overboard.
What the hell is wrong with me? He thinks it over and over, murmurs it, mutters. Whispers to himself, how do I fix this?
He doesn’t think there’s enough love to salvage all the hate.
But then Simon’s there. Knocking on the door and opening it without permission. Peering inside and gasping with hands across his mouth. Eyes wide and terrified. Scared. He hates it so much, how easily he scares others away. But how could he possibly make them stay? What does he have to offer?
“Wille… what? I- what happened? Your face… oh my god, your hair.”
Simon turns off the water pouring from the sink before leaning down to match his position on the floor. He moves forward. A hand touches his cheek. Wille flinches backwards. It hurts, like Simon’s touching his naked nerves instead of skin. Maybe he is. Who knows what’s left of him? Not much, he reckons. Wille looks down at his hands. Skin or bones?
“You need to go to the hospital. Those wounds on your face look infected. You’re bleeding. What did you do, Wille? What did you do?”
Simon sounds mad. Good. He should be. Wille’s angry, too. So angry at himself. Simon should be angry at him. But why does it hurt so much?
“Do you like it?” He asks in a whisper, bitterness coating his tongue. A small echo of a laugh escapes from his lips. Why is he so angry?
“No, Wille. I don’t like it. I don’t like you doing this to yourself. How could you possibly think I’ll be happy to see you hurt? Don’t you know how much I love-” He stops, clears his throat. Why does Simon’s voice tremble like that? “I’m going to get someone who can help,” he says instead, rising over him.
“Don’t.” Wille spits out, looking down at the floor.
“What do you want me to do? Leave you here?”
He doesn’t answer. Looks down on the floor in front of him. Wets the tips of his fingers into the sea he’s created. He wonders how Simon sees him now. Reckless, maybe. Stupid, probably. Ugly, most definitely. Pathetic, likely.
“I’m getting help. I’ll be back soon, okay?” Simon prepares to leave, but Wille has to stop him. Simon doesn’t deserve him. This. The mess that he is. The mess he creates. Simon looks beautiful, even though his face is twisted into something ugly. Only Wille can make Simon ugly. It’s not fair. He needs to make Simon realise that whatever Wille has is contagious. He needs Simon to leave. Needs Simon to stop saying he loves him when all Wille’s capable of doing is ruining him. It’s not fair. Love isn’t fair. Love shouldn’t hurt.
He raises his voice, makes it big and ugly and terrifying as he meets the eyes of the boy he wants to love more than anything.
“Look around. There’s no one here. No one cares! So why should you?”
“You don’t mean that.”
Simon stares at him for a long time. Wille knows that stare. His voice wavers. His confidence abandons him.
“You can’t fix me.”
He stares back. Forces his soft eyes to become hard.
“What’s there to fix?”
Even Simon hears the lie from between his own lips.
“Don’t you understand?”
Wille begs to be understood.
“You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“This isn’t fair, Wille.”
“What isn’t fair?”
“You can’t treat me like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like I don’t give a shit about you.”
“Do you?”
Simon lets out a frustrated sound. He doesn’t have the words to describe it, but it’s guttural, raw, anguished. Shame and guilt makes a home in his stomach. Simon’s right. This isn’t fair. He knows that Simon loves him. He’s proven it time and time again. This hatred isn’t about Simon, but somehow it’s changed form and shaped itself to hurt the ones he loves. He needs them to prove it. He needs evidence. Cold-hearted proof. Receipts.
But it’s never enough. The what if? lingers and festers inside his head and makes him into a monster who destroys everyone he loves until they can’t help but hate him.
He doesn’t want Simon to hate him.
“I’m sorry…” He tries to make amends. Tries to take Simon’s hands, but Simon is too antagonized. Wille’s made him into that. Into this. Into anger and fumes.
“You know what? You’re right. Why should I give a shit about you? You’re selfish. Have you ever considered how it makes me feel?”
“Simon…”
“I’m not a fixer. I’m not a shoulder for you to cry on or a wall for you to punch. I won’t stay around where I’m not wanted. I refuse to take care of your shit anymore. I’ve got my own problems. I can’t … this isn’t fair.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Simon. Please …”
“Shut up!” Simon screams. It echoes in his ears and bounces off the walls until it poisons his chest. It sickens him. Has he finally succeeded? Does Simon hate him more than he hates himself?
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Simon continues to scream, but Wille hasn’t said anything. Silence festers around them. Simon’s ears are red and his eyes are bloodshot. He looks blurry now, too. What has he done?
Wille bows his head to his knees. He needs to fix this. He can fix this. He turns his hands into needles and thread, mends the mangled bits of himself.
He starts with the sea flooding into the bedroom from the open bathroom door. He grabs towels and leads the water down the shower drain.
He wants Simon to hide his face in the crook of his neck while sneaking his hands around his torso and be able to feel safe.
He places all the towels he owns on the floor and crawls around on his knees to let the water soak into his soul.
He wants Simon to make his body into a home.
He cleans the mirror with soap and toilet paper, scrubs the brown, red and purple until both of their reflections stare back without the tiniest hint of a blur. His face is still a mangled mess. His eyes are sunken and shot. His hair is green and grotesque, but maybe his outside isn’t the ugliest part of him.
He doesn’t want them to be polar opposites anymore.
He throws away his brother on the sink. The man on the box doesn’t look like Erik anymore. Not even similar.
He wants them to love each other. Not hate each other.
Simon sits down on the bed and weeps. He’s never seen Simon weep like this. Whimpering. Small, strangled sounds escaping from his throat like a dying baby deer.
“I love you, Simon. And I mean that.”
Simon crumbles into a pile on the bed. He turns away from him, crawling into a ball and stares at the wall. Wille doesn’t know how to remove this space between them that he’s created.
“I’m sorry I said that you don’t care. I know that you do. You’ve never given me any reason to not trust you. It’s my fault. I thought… I don’t know what I thought, but I was selfish and stuck in my own head and couldn’t see that I was hurting you.”
Simon’s lip quivers and he won’t meet his eyes, but he turns slightly towards him as he whispers.
“I don’t understand why you can’t see what I see. I know that these kinds of things don’t make sense and there’s parts you can’t control, but you don’t need to hate yourself. It’s heartbreaking for me to hear you talk about yourself like… like you think you’re not a good person who loves deeply and makes others feel loved. You’re a good person, Wille. You’re kind. Smart. Funny. Beautiful. You’re all of those things. But hating yourself makes you selfish, and I hate myself for saying that because I know that it isn’t fair when it’s not your fault. But you need to stop, Wille. I can’t stay around and watch you hurt yourself and know there’s nothing I can do about it. Can you understand that?”
Simon turns towards him now, eyes meeting his. Wille wraps his arms around Simon and squeezes. Hard. Simon hides his face in the crook of his neck while sneaking his hands around his torso before squeezing him back. Hard.
“I understand.” His throat is thick with guilt and regret, both for himself and the boy in his arms who doesn’t deserve him.
The only thing Wille can do is do better. Be better. He’s going to make his own perception of himself and look into the mirror and find a person he can be proud of. He’s going to love his dark blonde hair, his tender and soft brown eyes, the crooked teeth, the acne scars, the recklessness, the stupidity. He’s going to learn to love every part of himself until someone else loving him feels like the truth, because he’s a good person who deserves it.
He can’t fix everything, but he’s going to change. He’s not going to scream to be heard. He’s not going to shut down instead of speaking. He’s not going to pretend. Not anymore.
“Can we start over?”
Simon nods. Wille can tell he’s trying to swallow the sadness. He doesn’t mention it or try to fix it. He lets him be upset because he has every right to. He gives it time. Time to trust.
Simon plays with his hair, pulling softly at the strands. He sighs discontentedly, hums as he contemplates. Wille relaxes against the touch.
“This hair got to go. Green is not your color.”
Wille agrees. Green doesn’t suit him.
“And you should change into some dry clothes. You’re going to catch a cold.”
Wille smiles and places a loving kiss on Simon’s cheek. He strips out of his soaked clothes and puts on dry ones. They move into the bathroom. Wille gets the tools before sitting down on the floor. Simon shaves his hair. It falls down around him. Strands on his shoulders. Tufts on his feet. Simon helps him shed the mangled parts and make room for new ones to flourish and thrive.
The next time he looks in the mirror, his head is shaved. Simon’s hugging him from behind, head resting on his shoulder, placing soft kisses on his neck. It’s hard to remember what he used to hate when he feels loved.
Simon frowns while looking at Wille’s face. There’s still gaping wounds where there no doubt will be scars.
“Do you want me to patch you up a bit?”
“Yes, please,” Wille agrees, “thank you.”
They find a first aid kit and Simon gets to work patching him up. He wipes off the blood, disinfects the skin and puts protective bandages onto the growing scars.
“I’m not a medic, but I think that will do for now. But promise you’ll check it out later, okay?”
“I promise.” He whispers into Simon’s ear, holding him tight. “I appreciate you so much, you know that, right?”
“It’s easy to forget, sometimes.”
“I’ll get better at reminding you.”
“Wille…” Simon hesitates.
“Yes?”
“I didn’t mean to be so hard on you. I know it’s not your fault that you believe you don’t deserve to be loved. That’s not what I meant. I was just trying to make you see it from my perspective. You’re not selfish.”
“Do you know why I love you?”
“No, why?”
“Because you love me enough to be honest with me. I need that.”
Simon kisses him. Lips and all. He knows he’s forgiven.
“Just… no more mental breakdowns in bathrooms, please?” Simon shakes his head and lets out a soft, fond sound of frustration as he touches Wille’s head and pouts. “I’m really going to miss your hair. Why did you have to ruin it? It was so soft.”
“I know, it was stupid. But it’ll grow back. You won’t leave me because I’m bald, will you?”
“Hmm, I guess not. But only because you’re cute.”
Wille surprises Simon with a tickle attack. He shrieks with laughter. It’s the most beautiful sound Wille’s ever heard.
They move to the bed and lay down together. The sun has settled behind the horizon, but none of them feels like sleeping.
“We should practice,” Simon suggests.
“What, making out?” Wille wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, smirking like a fool because Simon’s eye-roll makes his heart tingle.
“No, stupid,” Simon whacks him over the head, but it’s soft and teasing. “Say three things you like about yourself.”
“Three things? I don’t have three things. It’s too many."
“Come on, you have to be able to think of three things. I’ll go first, as an example. I like my hair.”
Wille smiles until his cheeks hurt. “I like your hair, too.”
“I know. It’s your turn.”
“I would say my hair… but, well.” He shrugs. Simon hides a little laugh. “Maybe… my eyes?”
Simon nods encouragingly, gazing into his eyes. “The second one?”
“I don’t know. You go first?”
“Fine. I like that I have strong morals.”
“I like your morals a lot.” Wilhelm confesses, a little shy. Simon takes his hand.
“Your turn. No exceptions.”
“I like that I’m… nice? Kind? Maybe? Am I kind? I mean, I haven’t been very nice today. Towards you. Towards me… ”
“You are kind, Wille. You’re one of the kindest people I know.”
“Do you know a lot of people, then?”
“I happen to know a lot of people, yes, and most of them aren’t all that kind. So, what about the third thing?”
“I like that I’m different.”
Simon’s smile is different than before. Longer. Gentler. His whole face follows. He looks like the sun.
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Wille kisses the top of Simon’s nose, counts the fireflies in his eyes that light up the dark night. He lets out a relieved breath, folding against the warm body next to him.
“There’s still things I don’t like about myself. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to learn to like those things. I’m so…” He feels the caged feelings leaking like watercolors out of his chest. “There’s so many things wrong with me, Simon. My head’s sick. I’m anxious all the time and there’s all this anger that I don’t want.”
“I don’t like everything about myself either. I don’t think anyone does. We’re humans, Wille. We’re all a bit fucked up.”
“You’re not fucked up, Simon. You’re like… the best person in the world. You’re my favorite person. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Yeah? You think growing up with my alcoholic dad didn’t leave scars? The reason I can’t stand injustice isn’t because I’m some saint. I’ve got scars too. Who was going to protect my mom from my dad if not me? Who was going to stand up to the kids who bullied my sister at school? I haven’t always been like this. Stubborn. Cold. I used to be soft, but I’ve had to be strong to protect others. I’ve had to grow thick skin to survive.”
“I feel privileged, then. That you feel safe enough to be soft with me.”
Simon cuddles closer into his arms. They fall asleep as night grows into a soft morning, breathing against each other’s skin, taking and giving.
There’s no mirrors here, but perhaps he doesn’t need mirrors to see his worth anymore. What a vile invention. Mirrors. Crooked reflections without truth. Maybe the floor is still soaked. Maybe the drain in the sink is still clogged with skin, blood and hair. Maybe his face still hurts from his own anger. Maybe his head is cold from the lack of protection. Maybe there’s still ugly parts inside him that he wants to poison until they drop dead and stop haunting him. Maybe his brain still needs to be studied.
But maybe, just maybe, he can cure it with kindness.