Time & Space (Short Fiction Collection Vol. 2) by Gord Rollo, Gene O'Neill, Everette Bell Page A

the large mirror across the room. It was one of those full-length standup dressing mirrors, all battered and ancient but a tiny seed of hope planted itself in Simon’s brain as he gazed over at it.
    “Maybe it’s me that has changed? Maybe today I’ll look different?”
    He scurried out of bed and raced over to the mirror. His recurring hope, futile as it was, had him metamorphosing overnight into some kind of younger version of Robert Redford complete with bright blue eyes and sparkling white teeth. Hope, once again, died at the mirror.
    The silver backed glass revealed a pale, sickly man who looked every second of his fifty-six years, and then some. Statistically, at five foot nine, one hundred and ninety pounds, Simon was fairly close to average proportions but somehow statistics didn’t count for a hell of a lot compared to the stark honest reality of a mirror’s reflection. He had a small skeletal frame (bird boned, as his father used to constantly tease) and was sadly lacking in the muscle tone department which caused the bulk of his weight – fatty tissue – to appear far more prominently that it should. His fat sagged loosely off his bones in thick jiggling ripples of jaundiced flesh, and the rest of the picture wasn’t much better. Simon’s arms seemed way too long, his legs too stubby, and far more grey hair adorned his shoulders and back than had ever graced the balding crown of his oversized, lumpy cranium. In short, the man in the mirror staring back at Simon wasn’t Robert Redford. Not even the older version. Not even close! He looked more like a mountain gorilla than a movie star.
    I can’t go on like this. I can’t pretend things are just miraculously going to get better. They won’t. Not ever. I have to die today.
    Too disgusted to look himself in the eye any longer, Simon slumped toward the small drab bathroom at the end of the hallway. On his way, he walked past his apartment door, not even glancing down at the growing pile of unread mail and newspapers he was forced to step across. As soon as he entered the bathroom, his eyes were drawn to the little glass shelf screwed to the wall above the toilet. On the shelf his unfolded straight razor waited, smiling at him. It was a thin, gleaming edged smile which seemed to say, Here I am, Simon… I’ve been waiting for you, my friend. Simon smiled back; not even aware that he was doing it. With shaking fingers he gently, almost reverently, picked the razor up.
    “You’re my ticket out of this scum hole. A couple well placed slices and whammo , I’m out of here!”
    It felt right to him. Simon could run himself a nice hot bubble bath, climb in to tenderize for a while, then slit both his chubby wrists. Ending things that way seemed almost pleasant. The pain and gore would be kept to a bare minimum and he could just numbly drift out of this rotten world in the warm crimson water. In some ways it was a better death than he felt he deserved but he was far too cowardly of a man to risk anything decidedly nastier.
    Simon whistled while the tub filled, happy that he’d finally decided to end his miserable existence. The world would be a far better place without him around to stink it up. The bathtub was half full before Simon realized what song it was that he was whistling. It was an old favorite of his father’s, some big band version of “ Some Enchanted Evening ” he’d often whistled along with as he battered his wife and son before, during, and after his many drunken rampages. Simon stopped whistling immediately, shamed into silence by the painful memories flooding into his mind. God how he had hated that psychotic bastard!
    It had been Simon’s father who started him on this downward spiral toward oblivion. His childhood had been a dark, twisted labyrinth of physical and mental abuse, neglect, loneliness, misery, pain, and constant fear. His mother had loved him as best she could. She’d been just as abused and afraid of his father as Simon