Familiar Stranger

We stood face to face, eyes locked like predator and prey, both waiting on the other, neither flinching but equally scared. Our breaths were in unison; in and out. His sore-covered skin carried no life in it; sagging, barely holding on to the skull beneath it. His teeth were rotting—what teeth were left—and the gauntness of his face made them appear large and obtrusive. The white in his eyes had abandoned him long ago, replaced now with a cloudy and ugly, red hue that surrounded lifeless and enlarged pupils.

The person standing in front of me was a functional stranger. He wasn't the kid who I had grown up with nor the man I went to college with. This couldn't be the same person who, not but five years ago, married the only girl he had ever loved and then watched passively as she walked out of his life. She refused to bare witness to a long and painful suicide. This was an impostor looking back at me.

I knew what this ugly person wanted from me, because behind those comatose eyes was a familiar face begging for help. "You have to want this, for yourself," I told him. "It's going to be hard. Harder than anything you've ever done," I added. He didn't cower or cringe so I pressed further. "Then say the words," I instructed, "Say them out loud." 

I'm an addict and I need help.

Do you need help or do you want it?

I'm an addict and I WANT help.

Are you trying to convince yourself because you're not convincing me?

I'M AN ADDICT AND I FUCKING WANT HELP!

As those words passed beyond my lips and floated out into the world, three years of self-loathing and torment went with them. I pulled my face away from the mirror, flipped off the bathroom light and headed towards my phone to make an important phone call. On my way out, without the harsh, judging fluorescent lights beating on my face, I stole another look at myself. In as long as I can remember, I liked what was staring back at me.