“He’s the image of his dad,” everyone declared since the day I was born. I shared his piercing blue eyes, blonde locks, and solid frame. A constant reminder of him to my poor disheartened mum when he abandoned us for good not long after.
Unfortunately, I also developed his penchant for booze, nags and the wrong women, his knack for always putting himself first, and his violent temper. Along with the ability to find the easiest and usually worst option, things hadn’t fared well for either of us.
Catching my reflection in the hazy cell mirror: I’m the spit of him.