Mirror, Mirror

Mirror, Mirror, what do I see but reality staring back at me. Why can’t you lie and show me something I don’t already know. That I have become the very thing I fight against every damn day in this toilet bowl I call home– A junkie, a junkie cop, no less the lowest of low, a disgusting waste of human flesh with no right to even breathe.

To top it off, I sold another life for a hit, a lousy hit, 30 minutes maybe, if I was lucky, of sweet bliss and euphoria, escape from the living hell I sold my soul to. Looking at my reflection, Mirror, the reality staring back at me, I have no doubt I would sell my partner, too.

When the fluid running through your veins burns like kerosene rather than the lifegiving force of blood, you would do anything to put it out, sell your soul and everyone else you ever called friend or family to put it out.

I’ve walked these streets, seen what that burning does. I’ve seen junkies, the ones who dared to kick it, they literal scratch and pull at their skin till there was nothing left in spots but a bloody mess of what used to be an arm or whatever they were able to get at.

Just to make it stop, and keep the burning from coming back.

When I looked at them, me and my almighty self high on that stool of self righteousness looked down and passed judgment without a second thought. Feeling repulsed and pity all at the same time, I was quick to give advice.

“…Just get yourself clean…”

“Control it, don’t let it control you…”

Empty words meant to help, but in reality, in the harsh light of the truth, I realize it only served to make me feel better, like I did something, made a difference.

Maybe I did make difference, maybe I didn’t. Does it really matter now that I am the one with the burning, the one to be despised and pitied.

Hell, looking at my reflection, I am repulsed by what I see. I am useless as a cop now, once this gets out, and it will, trust me on that, my word and creditability is null. I am worthless, because trust is golden on the street especially in a world where no one can be trusted.

Mirror, show me who can trust me when I can’t even trust myself. Show me something that will tell me I am still me.

“Starsky.”

My partner. Is that your only answer, Mirror, out of all that I ask, you give me that answer. I ask you to show me the man I once was instead of the pathetic soul reflected back at me. I asked you to show me who can still trust me after what I have become. And your answer is “Starsky”!

Maybe you’re right. What do I see there anyway; what do I see when I look at his eyes or rather into them?

You don’t have to answer me, Mirror, I already know the answer. The mirror there, in his eyes, reflects a man’s soul and gives the truest of reflections to any that look. A clearer image than any physical mirror can give.

What I see reflected there shows no condemnation, hate, or pity, no accusation against me. Instead, it is a reflection that comes from love, friendship, and trust earned over time through blood, sweat, and tears.

It is the true me that Starsky sees. To him, I am his friend, his partner, the other half of his heart, and a man like him, nothing more, nothing less, and one that is imperfect, fallible, and broken, one that is loved and accepted despite all the faults.

It is a reflection of true friendship, Mirror. Truer than anything you can show me; something I had forgotten when I turned away from his eyes and looked into your depths, Mirror.

I understand now, I see the truth… The reflection you give, the one I see now and accepted as truth, is the lie, and the one I see in his eyes is the true reflection and the one I believe.

FIN