He looked into the mirror. His hands by his side, his face slightly scrunched up. His fingers twitched and swayed from side to side. It was a strange sight. His pants didn’t quite reach his socks and his jumper was two sizes too small for him. He didn’t care, the mirror didn’t care, only the girl next door cared. He hated that she cared.

Though he hated the mirror more for displaying himself to himself. It was an image he often avoided. Though he couldn’t escape it. He had tried plastic surgery but that had failed, he hated the doctors who surrounded him with sharp objects. 

Ironically no matter how much he spent the plastic surgery didn’t fix anything. The alcohol did more. Whilst the broad next door could do something. Or so he believed. His beady eyes stared at his image in the mirror, hateful and spiteful of himself. He felt a slight pain in his knuckles and looked at them, bloodied. Something the alcohol hadn’t done.

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