scarred.

“There’s nothing left to write about.” The words spill out of his mouth, knocking over his morning cup of coffee. He grabs a napkin and attempts to blot it off before anyone can notice. 

“I mean…they all want the same boy meets girl story. How many more times can I do it again?” He trails off to reposition his the pages of his notebook so that the lines match. He picks his pen so it jabs a dent into his thumb before abandoning it to rub at the stain. 

“A story, a story, a story. There isn’t a single one left, I tell you. My last one was rubbish, don’t you know? I went on and on about a man with a scar on his left knee. No one spends that long picking at a scar, forget about reading about a scar. It’s all absolute junk.” He begins drawing straight lines on the white paper and cuts right through the surface. He tries to put the pieces together and realises that some have gone missing. 

Merde! This is blasphemous!” He realigns the torn segments to form the shape of an arrow that points at him. His fingers dangle down to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt as he stares at the mess in front of him. 

“Bull..fucking..shit. It’s all in me, I got it! It’s been in me!” He prances up for a second, waving his pen in the air, before settling back down. He scribbles on the arrow, jotting down one word on every piece. He smacks his lips as his hands jump across the surface of the table. He occasionally stops to wipe the spot and fix his shirt but does not leave his chair until all the chits have ink on them. 

“See, just, see. I did it! I told you it was in me.” He turns to look at himself in the mirror and cocks his head ever so slightly. He gets up to move closer to the reflection and notices that both chairs are now empty. “Look at yourself, just look! Now that’s a writer!” He smiles while rolling his eye as he pushes himself towards glass.

“Dammit, I am a writer if there was ever one.” He slurs as he speaks, throwing punches at himself but failing to meet his aim. He gives up and slouches into the chair, leaving his fingers to down to his left knee. “I make up shit and no one ever finds out. That’s a real writer now, isn’t it?” He scratches his skin till it bleeds, and then fumbles to pick up his mug. 

“Just look, look at my masterpiece.” He rotates the arrow around so it begins to spin. “Isn’t it just spectacular? Voila, here you go- a story! Not the junk all those other writers write. No, no, this is a story, see. It doesn’t have a beginning, middle, or end but it has actual substance.” He strokes his chin before rubbing his eyes. 

“Let me read this to you. Then, you’ll know. I promise, I promise, this one’s different. Just hear me out.” He peers at the message he has left and pauses to read it aloud. 

“Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

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