Beyond the Mirror

Sometimes, I sit around and wonder precisely what I am doing. It’s all the same clichéd existential questions all over again: why am I here? What am I meant to be doing? Who cares?

Most of the time, I can’t come up with an answer. The thing about people, I’ve found, is that they’re unreliable. I mean, most people don’t mean to be, but they are. All the best intentions and valid excuses in the world don’t make it hurt any less when someone lets you down. It may be your fault – it normally is, in my case – but still. It hurts.

It always hurts.

So I wonder what it is about me that rubs people up the wrong way. I examine myself in the mirror: the dyed hair, the dark sides, the facial shape. The accent, the puppy-like enthusiasm paired with the cutting sarcasm. Do people take me seriously? Do people misunderstand me? Do people mean it, when they call me arrogant and self-centred?

I know that they don’t know me, but it still makes me wonder sometimes. What if. What if the people who do know me really feel this way about me? What if they don’t tell me? What if, secretly, everyone hates me? What if, what if, what if – too many questions, and not enough answers.

I sighed.

There was a knock on the door. It opened, and Rhys’s curly-haired head appeared.

“Showtime in five, Sean, hurry up!” he chirruped. I jerked my head in acknowledgement, and he closed the door again.

Rhys. What did he think of me? What about the rest of the band? Did they know that when they made fun of me, sometimes, it really did get to me? Did they care?

Showtime.

For the next hour and a half, everyone will love me. Then, I’d hang out afterwards, and be surrounded by the die-hards who appreciated me enough just to wait and chat.

And then, back to the van, and back to the wondering, and the waiting, until I can get on stage again.

I stood up and left, closing the door on the way out. Another venue, another backstage toilet, another place to leave behind.

My name is Sean Smith, and you’ll never know any of this.