Static

The clock reads 2:05 am.

 I sit across from a washer that contains my clothes. It feels like it's been going forever.

 I lean my head back on the cold wall. The detergent smells too fake and chemical-like. The sound of clothes clicking and water sloshing is the only thing audible.

 I sit alone, with a certain dread and peace.

 I look around with my eyes. Outside the window is a pitch-black night. The lights above me flicker, then even back out again.

 I see a vending machine near the door.

 I stand and walk to it; the floor squeaks with each step. 

I retrieve quarters from my pocket. I have the exact amount that I need for it.

 The quarters slide into the machine, and I press a button. 

The drink falls with a thud; that's a little too loud and fitting for the place.

 I bend and get the drink, careful of the dirty floor. 

I glance at my reflection; it's not like me; it's colder. 

The emotionless face doesn't quite sit right. Just like that, it's gone, and my reflection goes back to normal.

I sit back down, taking a few sips of my drink.

 The light above me and a few more blink again, with a hum of electricity. 

I jump, drink spilling on me and the floor. I let out an extremely annoyed sigh.

 I stand, then stomp to the trash can and throw the drink in. 

But I hear an unamused, emotionless laugh.

 Which makes me jump again.

 In the window, I see a reflection, the same cruel look painted on its face, standing behind me. The eyes more hollow and unforgiving, containing none of my light.

 I turn quickly, but there's nothing there.

 I close my eyes and run my hands over my head.

 It's good I'm alone, or I would seem completely crazy.

 I let out a small, fearfully unamused laugh.

As I open my eyes, I jump, wanting to run but feeling too trapped.

 I stand, or my delusion stands in front of me.

 A mean smile appears on her face. 

"Well, you're not wrong..." 

She strides over to a chair, sits with her arms crossed, leaning back.

 Her eyes watch me in my panic. 

She only lets out an unamused laugh.

 "It's good you're alone; after all, you can't even deal with me."

 She snaps at me, then points to the chair I had been sitting in.

 My face switches from fear to anger.

 "I'm not a dog; you don't get to snap and command me around. Now tell me who you are, why you're here, and how you knew things I didn't even say out loud?"

At the last question, her eyes narrow in a calculated way. 

"I'm showing you what you could be. You like being alone; that's why you push so hard for it, even if you're afraid to admit it. You are so angry that you can't turn off all your emotions. You know deep down being alone and emotionless is easier; that's why you want it so bad."

I shake my head in disgust.

 "No..." "NO, that's not right."

"Oh? How so?" 

The words were calm and carefree as she delivered them.

I stumble over the words in a messy, unperformed way.

 "It, well, it would be easier, but it also wouldn't. And it's not that I want it; it just feels like the only option."

Fake pity glows on her face.

 Her words are slow and steady, biting the silence away. 

"See, so I'm right then. It's the only option, because it's the right one. The one that you keep pushing towards."

My face is red with embarrassment, and thoughts are flying.

 I let out a displeased, losing noise.

 "Uh," 

She shakes her head up and down slowly with unblinking eyes.

 An uneasy, forced smile shows on her face, one that never meets the eyes.

My face bounces between fear and shock.

 "But..." She looks at me, unmoving, in her opinion. "I, I don't want to be like you! It's not my fault; it's the only option."

Her smile comes, then falls, her eyes focused. 

"You want to be exactly like me; you want to be me. You're just too scared to let go. And that's completely your fault. If you didn't want to be like me, why would I be here? You said it yourself; it's your only option. We all know forgiving yourself isn't."

 The words feel more mocking than her expression.

She's not wrong, and it sends a pitiful pain through my chest. 

I’m a hostage to my own fear, doubt, and negativity as a whole.

 But she's wrong, because if I built that glass tower, one stone could destroy it. 

Through fear and determination, I finally speak, "I could."

 The words come out small. Maybe still trying to believe myself.

She stands, arms coming uncrossed.

 Her head tilted down, looking through her brows.

 "NO, you can't; you have to be like me. Even if you do forgive yourself, you will fail and have to come back to this option. You have to!"

“Forgive myself for what?”

 I ask a little too bravely, considering I already know.

Her words are smooth, in ways they shouldn’t be.

 “For everyone you’ve pushed away?”

She steps closer, and I step back. It’s slow.

 “For all the mistakes you still replay at night?

We both take another step, simultaneously, my back now against the cold wall.

 “For becoming and doing things you swore not to?”

My mouth opens, but words don't exit, as if my voice betrays me.

 Her cruel smile mocks me again.

I stand tall with a confidence I forgot I could own. 

She knows her head shakes back and forth, almost as if fearful. 

I know what I have to do, despite her tempting offer.

 "I don't have to be you, because you're not me. I can get up; I'm not weak like you!"

She begins to run towards me almost as if in slow motion.

 The floor squeaks, but it's not quite right, almost too quiet already.  

Her face flushed with a scary anger.

 As I speak, she screams, the pitch getting louder, "I forgive myself; I don't have to be emotionless. I don't have to be alone out of fear, and your words have no authority in MY life!"

She flickers as if just an illusion of light.

 Then she's gone, and a grey, painful pity fades.

 I stand alone in the laundromat now. 

A ding rings out into the silence.

 Time for the dryer.