04 January 2009

Patrick

Patrick pulled off his hat and rumpled his deep auburn hair; slid off his sweatshirt, and shucked two layered tee shirts. Patrick’s shoulders were small, like that of a young boy, and he hunched so that his collarbones seemed the only thing suspending his dirty white undershirt. Wearing layers upon layers of shirts was an attempt to avoid comments about looking sick or like an Auschwitz escapee. The sallow, flickering light only emphasized his concave chest and prominent ribs.


Patrick stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes never left those of his green-eyed reflection as he removed the steely rings piercing his lips, ears, nipples, and septum. The nautical stars inked across his chest seemed to twinkle in the uneven light. Next came the scissors as he cut off large chunks of his hair. Once he’d cut down the longest parts he went over his head several times with electric clippers using a shorter guard each pass until he was satisfied. It wasn’t the jarhead cut his grandfather had given him every summer of his childhood in this dingy bathroom, but it had changed his appearance enough that none of his New York friends would be able to recognize him.


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