Nico Rossi.
Dominic’s younger brother. The one who got hurt during a home invasion years ago.
His face has the same reconstructed quality mine does. Scar tissue down the right side.
His smile is crooked but present.
“Fiore,” he says. “Rough deal.”
“Rossi.” I nod back. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Been coming for years. It helps.” He leans back in his chair, comfortable in his own damaged skin. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Used to what?”
“The face. The stares. The way people look at you like you’re broken.” His voice is matter of fact. No self-pity. “You’ll love yourself again. Mostly because you’ll get bored of hating yourself.”
A surprised laugh escapes before I can stop it.
“Bored of hating myself,” I repeat. “That’s the bar?”
“That’s the bar.” His grin widens. It’s crooked, but genuine. “Trust me. Self-loathing gets exhausting after a while.”
Patricia clears her throat. “Tonight’s exercise is mirror work. You’ll approach the mirror one at a time. Look at yourself. State three neutral facts. Not judgments. Just observations.”
Neutral facts. Like calling outmise en placebefore service.
People take turns. Each one stands. Looks. Speaks.
“Skin graft healed pink.”
“Left eyebrow absent.”
“Jawline asymmetrical.”
The words land without emotion. Just data. Information plated and served.
My turn arrives too fucking fast.
I stand. My legs feel disconnected. Like someone else is operating my body and I’m just along for the ride.
The five steps to the mirror feels like fifty.
Finally I reach it, and force myself to look.
The scars dominate everything. The thick ridge from cheekbone to jaw where they stitched my face back together like a torn dish towel. The forehead track that catches the overhead light and throws shadows across my eye socket.
This is what a bear leaves behind when it’s done with you.
This is what I am now.
The Marco from a few days ago would have smashed this mirror. Bled all over the shards. Let the pain on the outside match the guilt on the inside.
But that’s not why I’m here.
Three neutral facts.
Not judgments.
