Admit IT!
A short story inspired by the lyrics of the song “Admit It!” by Say Anything
The Confrontation Within
Marcus stared at his reflection in the coffee shop window, but something was wrong. His vintage flannel looked too clean, too new. His ironic mustache seemed to writhe on his upper lip like a dying insect. The voice in his head started as a whisper, then grew into a roar that made his skull ache.
Admit it.
He pressed his palms against his temples, but the voice was coming from inside, boring through his brain like a parasite. Around him, his usual crowd pontificated about Dadaism, but their faces were melting, their words becoming unintelligible static. Marcus tried to speak, but his tongue felt swollen and foreign in his mouth.
Despite your pseudo-bohemian appearance and vaguely leftist doctrine of beliefs, you know nothing.
The coffee shop windows began to bleed black tar. The other patrons turned to stare at him with empty eye sockets that seemed to go on forever. Marcus realized he couldn't remember how he'd gotten here, couldn't remember what he'd been doing before this moment.
You are a vacuous soldier of the thrift store Gestapo.
His reflection in the window started moving independently, mouthing words he wasn't saying. The reflection's eyes were completely black now, and it was grinning with too many teeth. Marcus tried to look away, but his neck wouldn't turn.
You spend your time sitting in circles with your friends, pontificating to each other.
But when he looked around, his friends were gone. The coffee shop was empty except for mannequins dressed in thrift store clothes, their plastic faces cracked and bleeding. The mannequins were all staring at him, their mouths opening and closing in silent screams.
When you walk by normal people, you chuckle to yourself.
A group of "normies" materialized outside the window—suburban families with their faces carved away, business suits filled with writhing shadows, children with backwards heads. They were all looking at him through the glass, their hollow faces pressed against the window, leaving bloody handprints.
You are a faker. You are a fraud.
The voice wasn't his own anymore. It was coming from everywhere—the walls, the ceiling, the floor beneath his feet. The coffee shop began to rot around him, plaster peeling away to reveal pulsing flesh underneath. The smell of decay filled his nostrils.
You don't impress me. You don't intimidate me.
Marcus tried to run, but his legs wouldn't obey. Looking down, he saw his vintage jeans were fusing with his skin, becoming part of him. His carefully curated identity was literally consuming him, thread by thread.
But then, something shifted. Deep within the chaos, another voice emerged—not the cruel, mocking voice that had been tormenting him, but something quieter, more honest.
I am shamelessly self-involved.
As he spoke these words aloud, the rotting walls began to still. The voice was his own now, truly his own for the first time in years.
I spend hours in front of the mirror, making my hair elegantly disheveled.
With each honest admission, the nightmare began to crack. The mannequins' faces grew peaceful. The bleeding windows cleared.
I self medicate with drugs and alcohol to treat my extreme social anxiety
His reflection in the window stopped grinning with too many teeth. Its eyes, still dark, began to show something that looked almost like compassion.
But I'm proud of my life and the things that I have done.
The coffee shop snapped back into focus—real coffee shop, real people, real sunlight streaming through clean windows. His friends were there, looking concerned, asking if he was okay. Marcus realized he'd been standing frozen for only seconds, not hours.
I'm proud of myself and the loner I've become.
The dark reflection in the window was gone. In its place was just Marcus—imperfect, anxious, pretentious Marcus—but real. Human. Alive.
I want to taste the breeze of every great city.
He walked outside, leaving his confused friends behind. The city air hit his face, and this time he didn't think about his hair or his image or what anyone thought. The nightmare had been his mind's way of showing him the prison he'd built for himself.
My car and my guitar.
His car was parked around the corner—not made of flesh and bone, just metal and paint and hope. His guitar was in the backseat, ready for whatever came next.
The dark voice had been right about one thing: he was living a lie. But now, finally, he had the chance to live something true instead.
When I'm dead I'll rest, he thought, starting the engine, but until then, I'll try to be honest about who I really am.
As he drove away, Marcus caught a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror. His eyes were his own again—brown, uncertain, but alive with possibility. The nightmare was over.
The real journey was just beginning.
Copyright © Jason Pfaff
All Rights Reserved
