livwheat101
11-11-2010, 07:12 AM
“12 Months to Reflect” – by Liv Wheaton
He stood facing his reflection in the long room. He didn’t want to let his eyes drift too far either side for fear of making eye contact with the reflection one of the men standing either side of him. He had stolen glances at them while they were standing in the waiting room and didn’t like what he saw. The police had done their job well. All the men looked vaguely similar and they all held themselves in a manner that said this wasn’t their first time in a police station.
This left him only able to look at himself. He barely recognized the man facing him. He had spent the last few days altering several aspects of his appearance, and the result had left him feeling awkward and fake. Would it fool them? It was minutes until he would find out.
The first modification came in the form of a vicious looking tattoo on his forearm which spelled out: “C-8 CREW”. As he stared at it he relived the emotional and physical pain he felt getting something so horrific looking permanently inked onto his body. It would be worth the pain. His mind went back to what his father had drilled into him when he was thirteen years old – “Tattoos are for morons who can’t articulate their thoughts, so they have to write them on their body. If you get a tattoo, no one will ever want to employ you.” His father was a product of a time when men’s hair never reached below their collars and women were confined to the kitchen. He wondered what the old man would think if he could see the monstrosity etched into his arm now. Given the circumstances, it was safe to assume he would approve. As he had walked into the room moments ago he had casually rolled up his sleeves to make sure it would be displayed for the whole world to see.
The next alteration to his body was a diamond earing in his left earlobe. He had never understood piercings. Surely a hole through your flesh was something to be avoided? He held on to a small feeling of relief by reminding himself that at least he could take it out in a couple of hours, whatever the outcome of the day was. It wont be stuck on him for the rest of his life like the tattoo. However his mother’s words echoed around inside his head from his days in college when he claimed he wanted to get his ears pierced – “The only men that have earrings, my lad, are football hooligans and gay guys. No woman is ever going to want to walk down the isle next to a man with a piece of metal in his ear.” Even back then he realized how old fashioned his mother’s sense of appearance was, but the lesson had engrained itself within him. Looking at himself in the mirror, he didn’t think he looked gay or like a football hooligan, but he definitely felt that the small shiny piece of jewelry in his ear was an ugly intrusion to his face. Ugly, but necessary.
Next were his clothes and hair. He knew his usual attire wouldn’t convince anyone - he needed to change his look. The transformation left him feeling ridiculous in these baggy jeans that obscured half of his shoes from view. His T-shirt promoted a band he had never heard of, and his hoodie felt somehow loose and stifling at the same time. A week earlier, as he was hastily trying on the clothes, the shop assistant stared at him with an expression half of amusement at how awkwardly he stood in his new apparel, and half of confusion at why a man who had stood out the second he entered the shop in a very expensive suit would want to buy such cheap clothing, the type that he had obviously never worn before. He looked down and picked at the corner of the one addition to his image he hadn’t planned himself: the large white square of plastic with a number 4 on it, which hung around his neck.
He raised his arm and slowly brushed his hand over his incredibly short hair. He hadn’t seen his hair as short as this since he was a little boy and got head lice at school, forcing his aunt to sit him on the kitchen table and shear him like a sheep, while he watched through teary eyes at the hair drifting down from his head onto the plastic lino beneath his dangling feet. Right now his ears felt cold and he could see a small scar just above his hairline that he had forgotten was there. He didn’t like the way that if he run his hand one direction across his head it felt soft, while the other had a bristly sensation like a beard. A few years ago he had mentioned to a girlfriend that he was thinking of shaving his head. She had scrunched up her face in a look of displeasure and said to him – “You shouldn’t. Men shave their heads when they have run out of ideas for their hair. Please don’t. You just wont look like… you.” Perfect.
The final piece of the paintjob was by far the most convincing. While it wasn’t as painful at the tattoo, or even the piercing, it was definitely the hardest and most shocking one to implement. All he had to do was lightly touch a finger to the left side of his face to bring back the stinging pain. Then it would take a few minutes to subside and be replaced by the dull ache he had felt for the last few days. The swollen dark blue bruise around the bloodshot eye, and the shinny pink skin stretching across his cheekbone was definitely the detail that was going to make this whole thing work. It had been years since he had been punched, and being aware that it was coming didn’t make it any less painful. The homeless man had exploded with laughter when he was offered £100 to give this stranger a black eye. He was told very carefully that he needed to simply hit him, not so hard that it broke any bones or knocked him out, but hard enough that it left a visible mark. The homeless man had earned his money.
So who was this person staring back at him? If he struggled to see himself through the tattoo, the earing, the haircut, the clothes and the black eye, then surely the lie would be successful? Surely he could convince them he was someone he wasn’t?
The speaker above his head buzzed a little a it turned on. The voice that came from it was louder than he expected. It made him jump. He quickly gripped himself. Little personal traits like that might give the game away, he thought. The voice behind the speaker said;
“When your number is called, take one step forward and say the line you have been given, slowly turn around three-hundred and sixty degrees, then step back into the line.” There was a slight pause, before the voice sounded again. “Number 1”.
The man standing three places to right of him stepped forward and followed the directions they were all given. As he attempted a subtle glance over at the man he felt a line of sweat begin to form on the back of his neck. His hands began to tremble slightly so he put them behind his back. No. That looks too formal. He quickly shoved them in his pockets and slouched his back a little. This looks more out of character, he thought.
As Number 2 was called out a panicked confusion began to cloud his mind. The sound of the man two spaces to his right saying his line suddenly became very dull and muted. All the possible flaws in his beautifully designed plan began to attack and tease him like insects crawling all over his skin. He glanced at his reflection once again.
His hair was too short. It was obvious that it had just been cut. The skin around his ears and at the top of his forehead displayed a tell tale paleness that wasn’t the same tanned tone as the rest of his face. They would know that he had cut it recently.
His eyes zeroed in on his tattoo. The skin was still slightly red and raised around the black ink. What a rookie mistake. Anyone could tell that it was a fresh adornment to his arm. It wouldn’t fool them.
Something about his earing caught his attention. Not the earing itself but… was that a spec of dried blood next to it? It hadn’t healed properly yet. How could he have overlooked that? And that lame excuse for a ‘black eye’. He was in a building full of police officers who witness violence on a daily basis. They would know the difference between a real wound and fabricated one. His plan was unraveling in front of him, but he was powerless to do anything about it now.
As Number 3 was called out his mouth was dry. He had to gather himself. He could still make this work. All that was necessary was a perfect delivery of the line. As a lawyer he had become a master of lying with his voice, and now he faced the most crucial test of the abilities he had spent years honing. The room around him was an unfocused blur. He could do this. He had to.
The words from the speaker snapped him back into reality. “Number 4”. He took one step forward and looked himself dead in the eyes. His mind sounded like a distant stranger as it reassured him – “You are someone else”. He opened his mouth;
“Let go of the ****ing bag you *****.” Flawless.
He spat out the words with the prefect tone of spite and boredom. The voice of a thug who was painting over his fear with a transparent layer of confidence. He slowly turned around as he was directed, and stepped back into place in the line. Even if the all physicality’s of his presence hadn’t portrayed the right image, he was sure that his voice would have.
The other two men followed suit and said the line. When Number 6 was finished the voice came over the speaker again and told them to remain standing until further instructions were given. He shifted his head slightly and looked down at the hands of the man to his left. Number 5. He was fiddling with his wedding ring. This man, he noticed, also had a tattoo protruding from his sleeve, but he couldn’t make what it was. How strange he though, that he now will forever share an affinity with people like this.
Five minutes passed before the voice sounded for the final time. Every sensation he had felt over the past half an hour came flooding back to him ten fold the second he heard the speaker crackle to life again. His hands, now firmly jammed in his pockets, began to tremble with anticipation again. The nervous sweat returned to his neck. The clouded, distant feeling within his head swelled once more. His whole body was rigid as he waited for the announcement. This was it.
“Right. Number 4 remain where you are. Everyone else please exit out of the door to your left.”
The sweat subsided. The hands lay still. His head was clear. There was no longer any reason to be nervous. It was done. He watched the men file out of the room. As they shuffled past him they all avoided his eyes, except for Number 1, who simply offered him a sad smile and an encouraging wink. A wink that said “I’ve been where you are going. Good luck.”
And then the room was empty. He was left alone, knowing what was in store for him. One final time he gazed into the mirror at the distorted version of himself, and a small smile found its way to his face.
*******************************
12 months later he emerged from the prison gate. He hair was longer, his earing gone, and the expensive suit hid the tattoo on his arm. He nodded curtly to the guard and walked towards the figure waiting beside a car for him. He once again found himself staring at a reflection of himself, albeit with shorter hair, a nasty looking earing, and dressed in tatty clothing that didn’t hide an identical tattoo. The other man spoke first;
“You O.K.?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
There was strange silence between the two. Not a silence that stemmed from awkwardness or resentment, but from a deep understanding they had shared since the day they were born. They embraced. The man with the earing spoke directly into the other’s ear.
“Thank you. Thank you for doing that for me.” His voice quivered, on the edge of tears.
“You know I would do I again. A thousand times. That’s what brothers are for.”
He stood facing his reflection in the long room. He didn’t want to let his eyes drift too far either side for fear of making eye contact with the reflection one of the men standing either side of him. He had stolen glances at them while they were standing in the waiting room and didn’t like what he saw. The police had done their job well. All the men looked vaguely similar and they all held themselves in a manner that said this wasn’t their first time in a police station.
This left him only able to look at himself. He barely recognized the man facing him. He had spent the last few days altering several aspects of his appearance, and the result had left him feeling awkward and fake. Would it fool them? It was minutes until he would find out.
The first modification came in the form of a vicious looking tattoo on his forearm which spelled out: “C-8 CREW”. As he stared at it he relived the emotional and physical pain he felt getting something so horrific looking permanently inked onto his body. It would be worth the pain. His mind went back to what his father had drilled into him when he was thirteen years old – “Tattoos are for morons who can’t articulate their thoughts, so they have to write them on their body. If you get a tattoo, no one will ever want to employ you.” His father was a product of a time when men’s hair never reached below their collars and women were confined to the kitchen. He wondered what the old man would think if he could see the monstrosity etched into his arm now. Given the circumstances, it was safe to assume he would approve. As he had walked into the room moments ago he had casually rolled up his sleeves to make sure it would be displayed for the whole world to see.
The next alteration to his body was a diamond earing in his left earlobe. He had never understood piercings. Surely a hole through your flesh was something to be avoided? He held on to a small feeling of relief by reminding himself that at least he could take it out in a couple of hours, whatever the outcome of the day was. It wont be stuck on him for the rest of his life like the tattoo. However his mother’s words echoed around inside his head from his days in college when he claimed he wanted to get his ears pierced – “The only men that have earrings, my lad, are football hooligans and gay guys. No woman is ever going to want to walk down the isle next to a man with a piece of metal in his ear.” Even back then he realized how old fashioned his mother’s sense of appearance was, but the lesson had engrained itself within him. Looking at himself in the mirror, he didn’t think he looked gay or like a football hooligan, but he definitely felt that the small shiny piece of jewelry in his ear was an ugly intrusion to his face. Ugly, but necessary.
Next were his clothes and hair. He knew his usual attire wouldn’t convince anyone - he needed to change his look. The transformation left him feeling ridiculous in these baggy jeans that obscured half of his shoes from view. His T-shirt promoted a band he had never heard of, and his hoodie felt somehow loose and stifling at the same time. A week earlier, as he was hastily trying on the clothes, the shop assistant stared at him with an expression half of amusement at how awkwardly he stood in his new apparel, and half of confusion at why a man who had stood out the second he entered the shop in a very expensive suit would want to buy such cheap clothing, the type that he had obviously never worn before. He looked down and picked at the corner of the one addition to his image he hadn’t planned himself: the large white square of plastic with a number 4 on it, which hung around his neck.
He raised his arm and slowly brushed his hand over his incredibly short hair. He hadn’t seen his hair as short as this since he was a little boy and got head lice at school, forcing his aunt to sit him on the kitchen table and shear him like a sheep, while he watched through teary eyes at the hair drifting down from his head onto the plastic lino beneath his dangling feet. Right now his ears felt cold and he could see a small scar just above his hairline that he had forgotten was there. He didn’t like the way that if he run his hand one direction across his head it felt soft, while the other had a bristly sensation like a beard. A few years ago he had mentioned to a girlfriend that he was thinking of shaving his head. She had scrunched up her face in a look of displeasure and said to him – “You shouldn’t. Men shave their heads when they have run out of ideas for their hair. Please don’t. You just wont look like… you.” Perfect.
The final piece of the paintjob was by far the most convincing. While it wasn’t as painful at the tattoo, or even the piercing, it was definitely the hardest and most shocking one to implement. All he had to do was lightly touch a finger to the left side of his face to bring back the stinging pain. Then it would take a few minutes to subside and be replaced by the dull ache he had felt for the last few days. The swollen dark blue bruise around the bloodshot eye, and the shinny pink skin stretching across his cheekbone was definitely the detail that was going to make this whole thing work. It had been years since he had been punched, and being aware that it was coming didn’t make it any less painful. The homeless man had exploded with laughter when he was offered £100 to give this stranger a black eye. He was told very carefully that he needed to simply hit him, not so hard that it broke any bones or knocked him out, but hard enough that it left a visible mark. The homeless man had earned his money.
So who was this person staring back at him? If he struggled to see himself through the tattoo, the earing, the haircut, the clothes and the black eye, then surely the lie would be successful? Surely he could convince them he was someone he wasn’t?
The speaker above his head buzzed a little a it turned on. The voice that came from it was louder than he expected. It made him jump. He quickly gripped himself. Little personal traits like that might give the game away, he thought. The voice behind the speaker said;
“When your number is called, take one step forward and say the line you have been given, slowly turn around three-hundred and sixty degrees, then step back into the line.” There was a slight pause, before the voice sounded again. “Number 1”.
The man standing three places to right of him stepped forward and followed the directions they were all given. As he attempted a subtle glance over at the man he felt a line of sweat begin to form on the back of his neck. His hands began to tremble slightly so he put them behind his back. No. That looks too formal. He quickly shoved them in his pockets and slouched his back a little. This looks more out of character, he thought.
As Number 2 was called out a panicked confusion began to cloud his mind. The sound of the man two spaces to his right saying his line suddenly became very dull and muted. All the possible flaws in his beautifully designed plan began to attack and tease him like insects crawling all over his skin. He glanced at his reflection once again.
His hair was too short. It was obvious that it had just been cut. The skin around his ears and at the top of his forehead displayed a tell tale paleness that wasn’t the same tanned tone as the rest of his face. They would know that he had cut it recently.
His eyes zeroed in on his tattoo. The skin was still slightly red and raised around the black ink. What a rookie mistake. Anyone could tell that it was a fresh adornment to his arm. It wouldn’t fool them.
Something about his earing caught his attention. Not the earing itself but… was that a spec of dried blood next to it? It hadn’t healed properly yet. How could he have overlooked that? And that lame excuse for a ‘black eye’. He was in a building full of police officers who witness violence on a daily basis. They would know the difference between a real wound and fabricated one. His plan was unraveling in front of him, but he was powerless to do anything about it now.
As Number 3 was called out his mouth was dry. He had to gather himself. He could still make this work. All that was necessary was a perfect delivery of the line. As a lawyer he had become a master of lying with his voice, and now he faced the most crucial test of the abilities he had spent years honing. The room around him was an unfocused blur. He could do this. He had to.
The words from the speaker snapped him back into reality. “Number 4”. He took one step forward and looked himself dead in the eyes. His mind sounded like a distant stranger as it reassured him – “You are someone else”. He opened his mouth;
“Let go of the ****ing bag you *****.” Flawless.
He spat out the words with the prefect tone of spite and boredom. The voice of a thug who was painting over his fear with a transparent layer of confidence. He slowly turned around as he was directed, and stepped back into place in the line. Even if the all physicality’s of his presence hadn’t portrayed the right image, he was sure that his voice would have.
The other two men followed suit and said the line. When Number 6 was finished the voice came over the speaker again and told them to remain standing until further instructions were given. He shifted his head slightly and looked down at the hands of the man to his left. Number 5. He was fiddling with his wedding ring. This man, he noticed, also had a tattoo protruding from his sleeve, but he couldn’t make what it was. How strange he though, that he now will forever share an affinity with people like this.
Five minutes passed before the voice sounded for the final time. Every sensation he had felt over the past half an hour came flooding back to him ten fold the second he heard the speaker crackle to life again. His hands, now firmly jammed in his pockets, began to tremble with anticipation again. The nervous sweat returned to his neck. The clouded, distant feeling within his head swelled once more. His whole body was rigid as he waited for the announcement. This was it.
“Right. Number 4 remain where you are. Everyone else please exit out of the door to your left.”
The sweat subsided. The hands lay still. His head was clear. There was no longer any reason to be nervous. It was done. He watched the men file out of the room. As they shuffled past him they all avoided his eyes, except for Number 1, who simply offered him a sad smile and an encouraging wink. A wink that said “I’ve been where you are going. Good luck.”
And then the room was empty. He was left alone, knowing what was in store for him. One final time he gazed into the mirror at the distorted version of himself, and a small smile found its way to his face.
*******************************
12 months later he emerged from the prison gate. He hair was longer, his earing gone, and the expensive suit hid the tattoo on his arm. He nodded curtly to the guard and walked towards the figure waiting beside a car for him. He once again found himself staring at a reflection of himself, albeit with shorter hair, a nasty looking earing, and dressed in tatty clothing that didn’t hide an identical tattoo. The other man spoke first;
“You O.K.?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
There was strange silence between the two. Not a silence that stemmed from awkwardness or resentment, but from a deep understanding they had shared since the day they were born. They embraced. The man with the earing spoke directly into the other’s ear.
“Thank you. Thank you for doing that for me.” His voice quivered, on the edge of tears.
“You know I would do I again. A thousand times. That’s what brothers are for.”