Mind Games

Blood dripped from under my glove. The concrete wall didn’t move from its position, a bloody fist-print the only mark on the seamless hallway. A light flickered a sickly yellow glow, and I collapsed to the floor from an overwhelming exhaustion. Echoes from my head hitting pavement sounded from around the room. When I woke up, I had stopped bleeding, and my gloves were no longer stained. I was now wearing a blank white shirt and pants, my items placed in the corner of the dark new room. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the light, wondering how I had ended up in this hole. I picked up my leather jacket and put it on, the new room was chilly.

         I looked around the dark room. It smelt like mold, and a simple wooden chair sat in the middle. A bright light shot light in a circle around the chair, making it look like an interrogation room. I was startled as my viewpoint changed to in front of the chair. It was if I just appeared there. I sat down and observed my surroundings. The room changed as I did so. Blue pads covered the walls and a large mirror sat at the front. I looked into it and studied my face. Pain showed through my tough exterior, making me feel strange.

         I stood up from my seat and walked up to the mirror. It was an interesting mirror, in the fact that it changed my appearance as I walked towards it. I cycled through my ages, from adult back to child, seeing my teen aged self in the mirror when I reached it. I touched my face; the scars that covered my face had disappeared, as if not there yet. I reached out and touched the glass, but was pushed back and my reflection changed again.

         It wasn’t a hard man anymore, a respectable citizen stood before me. I looked hard at this new self. I saw what I wanted to be, not what I was. He stood straight, and wore a suit, different from me in my white garb and black coat. He beckoned me. I walked forward only to be greeted by an older gentleman, a thought told me it was a reflection of what I was to become.

         A man sat staring at me from a wheelchair. One leg crippled beyond use, and a cast on his lower ribs. He had no hair, but grey eyes and eyebrows. He breathed from a mask sitting on his nose and around his mouth, like the ones used in hospitals. It channeled from an oxygen tank and blew every few seconds. The man’s breathing was troubled, and laboring. An IV hookup strung from his left forearm, into a bag of fluids. An intense stare kept on me, not drifting away. He was the form of regret. They were all symbols.

         The child, showed my original innocence. The teenager, the day my path went crooked. The respectable businessman, a version of me that would never see the light of day. The old man was a combination of all of them, and was the real form of me. I was filled with regret, of what I did do, what I didn’t do, and what I would and wouldn’t do.

         Welcome ladies and gentlemen, to the mind of an imperfect man.