The Man With The Broken Mirror

I get up every morning with a half empty bottle of vodka staring me right in the face, laughing at me, at what I've become. A shell of the man I once was, I've lost my drive, my passion, my want for life. Looking back I would've changed a few things. First of all I wouldn't have flipped off the cop that pulled me over for doing 93 in a 45. Secondly I would never have cracked the doornob joke about the judge's wife. The last thing is I would have behaved better behind bars. But that's in the past I can daydream over what I should've done differently all day but I need to try to get the wrinkles out of my collared Seven Eleven shirt which by the way, I slept in last night.
I drench my shirt in body spray, I grab the tire Iron out of the trunk of my Buick Lesabre. I walk in and hide it behind the counter, I tell Toni my female co-worker that I'm going to the shitter. She usually makes some wise ass joke, but today for some reason she chose not too.
Every single day I go into the men's restroom and stare at my reflection in the faded mirror for five minutes then erase the comments written in black Sharpie off of the wall beside the paper towel dispenser.
Jail royally fucked up my life. I went from being one of the highest paid members of a law firm to wiping black marker, and shit off of a Seven Eleven bathroom wall. My family doesn't even invite me to Christmas dinner, my ex-wife is spreading her legs for some Italian resturaunt owner, and my son doesn't even recognize me. That's how the sweet life plays out here in bum fuck egypt, also known as east Atlanta.
I walk out of the bathroom and tell Toni she can go home. My shift starts, I sit on a stool that kills my ass and sell ciggarettes to druggies, hookers, and God knows who else for eight hours straight every damn night. The fun part is seeing the pieces of shit that I put behind bars or met there on a daily basis walk into my store.
Last but not least the burglaries. This happens on almost a daily basis. Some punk ass kid comes in with a butterfly knife and thinks he's going to become a fucking billionare off of the two hundred, fifty three dollars, and ninety five cents that are in the register. Dumbass. Anyways I pull out my trusty tire Iron and threaten to eternally screw up his acne covered face, he admits defeat and walks out.
Finally my eight hours are up and I go to the Abc package store pick up a bottle of Grey Goose and return to my apartment. I enter the bathroom, today I take my shower with hot water, a rare treat. I go out and go to a bar where I try to take home the flavor of the day. Today her name is Candy, refreshing right? She looks like the road crew spilled asphalt below her eyes and set off the air bags. I'll wrap it and tap it, avoid the calling and pillow talk like I always do. I get home the bitch pulls out a Glock, takes the twenty six dollars out of my wallet and tries to chop my dick off with a nail file. I run into the bathroom and lock the door. I look in the mirror once again and say "man you really know how to pick em don't you John?" after about twenty minutes she leaves. I go back out, she fucked up the apartment pretty good. That's the last time I try to pick one up from SGT. Jack's bar. I turn off my light, and fall asleep.
I dream that I steal money from the store, and run. I run like a motherfucker, I make Bonnie and Clyde's run look like child's play. The register doesn't have much but the lock box has a small fucking fortune hidden inside. On a good day it has a few grand. In the dream I unlocked it and shoved it in a Seven Eleven duffle bag, isn't Irony a bitch? I jack an old guys mid life crisis edition Corvette. I drive that son of a bitch all the way to Cancun and settle with some seniorita and have great fucking time doing it.
I wake up in the morning and a wild idea sparks in this head of mine. I called up my friend Terrance. We met after I got out of prison in some strip joint downtown, he was shoving counterfit one's in some strippers g-string. Come to think of it I think it was that Candy bitch.... But anyhow I called him and told him the scheme that was unfolding in my head. He was all aboard when he realized there was money to be made.
I slept the next night like a baby. I woke up put on my Seven Eleven custom made polo with a pile of shit as their logo. Terrance called. We had a nice long talk, the game was on.
I chugged the remaining half bottle of Grey Goose and looking in my bathroom mirror. I chucked that damn bottle so hard that it shattered the whole mirror into oblivion. Ms. Travis my wonderfully old bitchy neighbor came knocking at my door. "If you don't keep it down I'm gonna call the police" I told the old hag to go fuck herself and slammed the door in her face. That reflection that I've hated for so damn long was gone. It was now time to make a new one.
I drove to work, in my Buick Lesabre, pulled the tire iron from the trunk and put it behind the counter. Today wasn't going to be friendly to my record anyhow so I layed down a big sloppy one on Toni, to my surprise she kissed back. After the highlight of my day was over I went into the bathroom and looked at the reflection, I liked it for the first time in a long time. I went out, and sat on the same stool I've sat on for the past two years. When it was slow, I made my move, I unlocked the register and lock box, I shoved the cash into the bright green Seven Eleven duffle bag :) and I saw terrance pull up in a shiny brand new mid-life crisis edition Corvette that I'm absolutely positive he stole from Ms. Travis' deadbeat brother. I tossed the duffle bag to him and before I could reach the door handle he said "Sorry John, but business is business" as some blonde raised her head up from his lap with a shit eating grin on her face. He stomped on the gas and took off before I could even get a word in. As they sped away I yelled to the blonde bitch "I HOPE YOU LIKED THE TASTE OF HERPES!!!!" and they were gone. Sirens echoed throughout the buildings and some punks tried to restrain me but I punched the shit out of them, I ran in, grabbed my tire iron and ran into the bathroom. The new reflection I saw just minutes ago now shatters into a million pieces. I stand there and just stare at my reflection, two minutes later I hear the heart warming sound of a police officer yelling at me to come out. I refuse. He kicks in the door and I raise the tire Iron high above my head and charge. That's when the .45 caliber bullet pierces my skull right between the eyes, exits the back and cracks the mirror. I lay dead in a small pool of blood.
Now everyday, unbeknownst to him my son goes into the bathroom of that Seven Eleven before work and stares at his reflection, in my broken mirror.