"Demon in the Mirror" - Short Story (Warning: strong language)

I don't think I posted this at the old TFP. If I did, I apologize. Not too sure if I like the ending.

"This is it."
That was the first truly clear thought Colin Wilson had had in weeks. He was in filthy small bathroom in God knows where. Empty, shattered bottles of whiskey lay strewn all around the dingy tiny apartment, with a half consumed line cut with Drain-o on the glass coffee table held up by milk crates. His girlfriend of three years, Suzanne, was lying lifeless in a corner - a half-spent syringe in her heavily bruised arm. Blood intermingled with whatever was in the syringe and trickled down in a fine ribbon that trailed down her arm, pooling black in her hand.

Colin didn't know when she died, nor what she shot herself up with. To him it could've heroin, could've been coke, could've been fucking bleach for all he knew. All he remembered was coming home one night one night after scoring some hydros off Clifton just down the way; pleased as fucking punch with himself, and finding her there - heart stopped, face blue, not breathing. His hole world shattered in a matter of seconds.

He couldn't remember anything after that. He didn't know why he didn't call 911. All he knew was that inside he was dead as Suzanne. And it was time his soul joined hers.

He stood at the sink, one arm grasping for dear life to the sink, the other barely grasping the revolver he stole from his dad all those years ago (was is years? Months? Or weeks?) He brought the gun shakily underneath his chin. he felt the cold steel of the barrel pressed against his warm flesh. He took a glance in the mirror above the sink and wept freely at what he saw.

He saw a gangly young man with watery, deadened hazel eyes. His dirty blond hair hair long and greasy and falling out in clumps. He had a thin, scraggly beard outlined his chin that somehow accentuated his pallid, paper thin skin. His face covered in open sores. The rest of his skin had the texture of wet paper and he could see his irregular pulse in his temple and his jugular. It was obvious he hadn't bathed in weeks. Vomit and filth covered his Stooges shirt and trailed down his piss and shit-stained Hanes boxers and covered again his favorite blue Chucks. He had no idea where his jeans were.

His thin legs now were too weak to hold him up. He hated what he saw - once a bright young man with a beautiful and intelligent girlfriend - moving from Madison to the lights of L.A. to make his dreams come true - to be a bigwig record producer. The young man who tried out for high school baseball team and made the starting roster as a right fielder. The seventeen year old who stretched his right arm up and caught the sure-to-be homer right at the warning track, winning the state championship for is school - was now his frail ghoul staring back at him. Tears streamed from his eyes as he clicked the hammer back.

"Do it."
That thought - voice? - echoed through his ears. He took a deep breath. His mouth felt like the Kalahari. He slowly squeezed the trigger.

"DO IT!"
Colin watched in silent horror as his reflection's lips formed these words and barked it's order again.

"DO IT! AIM for the fucking STARS!"
"...What...?" His reflection did not mime his word.

"Fucking end it! You have nothing to live for!" his reflection sneered.
"...to live for..." Colin lipped.
"You're just another hopeless fucking addict! Your girlfriend killed herself because of you! You turned her on to that shit! You're a fucking nobody in a strange town! You have no friends, your mummy and daddy are no fucking where near to help you! Though if they see what their precious son's become, I don't think they'd want to help. What do your fucking have to live for?"
"...Nothing," Colin whispered, his eyes burning.
"That's right, JACK FUCK!"

Colin's finger squeezed the trigger a little tighter. He started to sweat a little, his balance unsteady.
"...can't", he murmured.

"The fuck you mean you can't?" his reflection demanded. "Too fucking chicken?"
"Nooo..."

Colin dropped to the revolver and threw up blood in the sink. He fell to the ground and sobbed freely. After fifteen minutes (an hour? Two?), he pulled himself to one knee, grabbed the gun again and slowly stood back up.

"You done sobbing like a twelve year old girl with a skinned knee?" his reflection mocked. Colin could do nothing but grunt an answer. He slowly brought the gun back up to his temple, and started squeezing the trigger again.

"God, give me a sign no to do this!" thought Colin as his reflection cackled. He shut his eyes and pulled the trigger all the way.

Click.
Nothing.
Colin opened an eye. He was paler than death and sweating profusely now. His legs shaking like palms in a hurricane.

"Do it again," his reflection barked.
Click.
Nothing.

"AGAIN!"
Click.
Nothing.

"GOD DAMMIT!"
Colin, tears welling again in his eyes, spun the revolver, pointed it back to his head, and pulled the trigger once more. Still nothing.

"JESUS FUCK, CAN'T YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT?" his reflection said. Colin glared back. Pulled the trigger once more. Still nothing. His reflection roared in frustration.

"DO YOU EVEN HAVE FUCKING BULLETS IN THAT FUCKING THING?" it screamed. Colin flicked the revolver open. There were bullets in every chamber. Why hadn't they gone off? Was this his sign? His tear stained gained a tiny shimmer of hope. He snapped the chamber back, and pointed the barrel at his head again. He cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger a sixth time. Still nothing. His reflection screamed in anger again.

"WHAT THE FUCK'S GOING ON HERE?"
"...Col...in...?"
A very faint voice from the other room. Colin's face lightened up.

"Suzanne? SUZANNE!" He turned to leave the bathroom, but an unseen force stopped him at the threshold.

"Where do you think YOU'RE FUCKING GOING?" his reflection demanded. Colin looked back and saw his reflection seemed to have changed. What once was a wiley smile there was a dark sneer. A jovial, mocking face turned menacing - almost demonic. "Get your fucking junkie ass back here and finish what you STARTED!" Colin Wilson walked slowly back to the sink under that unseen force.

"Colin? Wh...where...WHERE ARE YOU?" came Suzanne's voice.
"I'll be right there babe!" he called back. And in that instant, he knew what he had to do. He focused all his anger, sadness, fear, hopelessness, pain, and misery at his reflection. He thought of the pain his actions had caused, his regrets of ever moving out of Madison, of trying heroin at the BJM show, and promised to himself that if this worked, that he'd never touch a fucking drug again for as long as he lived. His reflection grinned mercilessly at him and started to cackle. Colin Wilson spun the chamber, cocked the hammer, and pointed the barrel at his head one last time. One. Last. Time.

He pulled the trigger.

The mirror exploded, and along with it his darker half, which screamed a most unholy scream of agony that shook the entire apartment as shards of glass flew everywhere, one shard grazing Colin's cheek would give him a scar that he would have til the day he died. Colin Wilson stood there a new man. A changed man. A man starting to recover. He turned around and left the room. He went to Suzanne’s side and she looked weakly up at him as he crouched down to be with her, then she looked down at her bruised and bloodied arm and looked back up in mute horror and tears welled up in her eyes. She didn't have the strength to to say anything, only mouth "I'm sorry". Colin kissed her on her tear soaked cheek and whispered "It's OK".

"We need to get you to the hospital, Suze!" Colin said. He left her side for a moment to find his jeans. They were crumpled by the bedside and he fished out his cell phone and called dispatch. After a few minutes he hung the phone up and went back to Suzanne's side, crouched down, put his arm around her; surrounding her like a blanket, and kissed her gently on the forehead.

"It's a miracle we're alive", he said as paramedics arrived.