White

My name is Mr White and I believe in taking care of myself through a balanced diet and an exercise routine. This routine is designed to keep me looking at optimum fitness and at my physical peak. I think that keeping a good appearance shows people you have complete control, no matter whom you are.

I get up, instantly stunned by this beautiful creature in the mirror placed at the end of my room. I smile, knowing too well that this creature is me. I’m not a vain man; I just respect the power that the body has over the minds of others. Screw personality, it was all about the anatomy.

I open the blind in my bedroom, casting a light over neutral colours of my rooms that highlight the depersonalization of city life. The roar can be heard from the window of my penthouse. I can see everything from my window, bar the scummy parts of the city. It’s so high up here, I feel as if I’m flying with every morning. I’m too high up to be considered a poor person living in London. My penthouse overlooked the park, unfortunately there was currently a ‘living-statue’ working down below, whom I mentally noted that I should shoot later on.

50 sit-ups. 50 press-ups. Break. 100 squat thrusts with arm crunches simultaneously. Repeat. The six-pack comes naturally; it’s the arms and legs I need to focus on. If I am to become the god I know I am, then I must work. The world wasn’t built in a day. I mean, I could still lift a small elephant, but I’m not perfect, not yet. My mind is flawless on the inside, so my body must reflect that too. Repeat.

Shower, making sure to exfoliate everywhere. Dead skin is old skin and I shall never be old. Even at the seemingly old age of 27, I look like I have just come out of college, not a wrinkle in sight. Perfect. To the mirror, use two squirts of the white bottle to take away under eye puffiness. Use the blue tube, a water based lotion to create an even texture. Eye drops, to sparkle and enhance. Apply vigorous amounts of shaving cream; a perfect face should have no flaws, especially not little shaving cuts that could drive away potential customers because they think I’m Scarface’s body double. Use Xpert razor, triple bladed for maximum comfort and precision, to create a clean and smooth face. Excellent. Last of all; apply lotion to lips to get a soft, flawless pout.

Wardrobe. Sliding open the door is always a brilliant experience for me, catching sight of all those wondrously expensive suits hanging there, waiting to be worn. Far below my penthouse there were starving people on the streets with no home. It feels fantastic to know that one of my suits could provide them with a life, but no; I just waltz past them, smirking at my good fortune. I pick my outfit of today: a Caraceni jacket and matching trousers, in bleak grey, sharp and angular on top of a black Calvin Klein crew neck woollen jumper which rests upon a starch white shirt. I slip on some fine leather boots and check the laces before standing up slowly, tensing my muscles and staring into the mirror. My clothes seemed to be there, so did my slicked back hair. My eyes stared back at me in the mirror, appearing to be real.

There is an idea, Mr White. Some kind of illusion. But there is no real me; only an entity. And though I can hide my icy glare and you can shake my hand and feel my warm skin underneath and maybe you think our lifestyles are probably homogeneous: I simply am not there.


The gentlemen’s club is sophisticated enough to be seen in, but still trashy enough that we can all gawp at the women who writhe around in those cages in the corner of the room. Hey, we’re men. What did you expect? We’re situated on the leather sofas by the bar but still near enough to a female so we can all rake our eyes over her whilst we chat about important, hardcore global issues. I’m ingesting my old favourite, the Long Island Iced Tea that I only insist on drinking because no bartender in the world can remember all the ingredients. I like watching them suffer as I tap my fingers on the table, seemingly irritated, and then just grabbing the slim cocktail glass away from them, stuffing the money into their palms. It was my routine of making people seem smaller than me; a usual hobby I enjoyed.

I looked across the room at my acquaintances, not being able to tell one from another, each one having the same pinstripe suit, slicked back hair and greedy glint in their dark eyes. They were waffling on about some deals, accounts, things that didn’t really interest me. But at least they weren’t talking to me. I would have rather had shot myself in the foot than them turn their attention to me.

“So, White, why won’t you represent the Spore account?” said either Matthew or Gregory. Mentally seething, I turned to the man. It’s normal. Put smile on your face but look serious. Slick back hair with palm and always look too smug.

“I won’t represent someone who is kissing my ass all the time. Plus, his morals are wrong,” I stated, smirking at him.

“Morals, shit. That guy is made of money,” another piped up, probably called Callum or Fred.

They began to talk about something else again and I cast my eyes to my drink again. No, look back up, chin out. Puff the chest. You’re an Adonis White. Your body is a temple, let them see that. Let them envy your Caraceni suit, precise angles and silky texture. I was so proud of it, bought brand new. Cost a small fortune.

Wait. One of them had….no. It couldn’t be. It was.

An Armani suit. Chinese silk. I could smell the beauty of the material from here. The way it outlined his body was flawless, not a crease, not a pinstripe that wasn’t perpendicular….the glass in my hand began to crack. The weave of the fabric was intoxicating. The lapels were straight and narrow, unlike mine which now seemed far too wide and clumsy; the curve of the pockets was sweeping and majestic. I held my breath and felt my eyes glaze over as I glared at the statement of conspicuous consumption.

“White? You ok?” Callum or Fred asked, waving his hand in front of my face. I snapped up to look at him, trying to smooth out my abnormal expression.

“I guess I’ve just been working out a bit too much. Cracked the glass handle,” I chuckled, knocking back the rest of my drink and placing the shards of glass on the table. I couldn’t take sitting here anymore when that…..thing was sat across on the opposite chair. I excused myself from the table and strode through the bar, placing my hands in my inadequate pockets as I burst through the bathroom door.

This was the second time this had happened this week. A few days ago Callum and Paul or Matthew and Jimmy had shown me their new playthings. All blondes. Thin as sticks with ridiculous surgery, making them look like grotesque caricatures. My curvy brunette statue seemed rather shoddy compared to them. I loved her, but what was love here? Love gets you nowhere. Apart from maybe sat at the bottom of a penthouse, watching the rich walk past in their fancy suits. She was out of my flat the next day, kicked onto the streets with all her suitcases. I can’t recall her name, but she had a lovely face and a good heart. She would have worked well with me, if brunettes had been ‘in’ at the time.

In this world, my world people don’t accept you as an individual. Just the other day my own lawyer had said:
“White? Conniving bastard, really. Don’t you think so Jimmy?”

I just burst out laughing at him. Agreed with him. What was the point in telling him? He would only forget my name the next day.
But then, how did I know who I was? For all I knew, I was Jimmy. In my world no one is someone. Everyone is no one. And we are all each other. I retained the last bit of individuality through the constant battle to be the best against the others. If the current leader of the pack dyed his hair, I would probably follow. I was a sheep and I didn’t care. It was what I needed to survive.

The bathroom was filthy. But then, I suppose it would be when in every cubicle a guy was getting ‘serviced’ or jacking up on coke. I strode across the tiled floor, shoes clicking too loudly in the echoed filled room. I rested my hands on the sink and stared up at myself in the mirror. Wrinkles. They were everywhere. Around my eyes, on my forehead even around my perfect pout. My eye twitched in annoyance. I ran my hands over the slicked back hair and took a deep breath. As soon as I got home I would buy a better suit, don’t worry yourself White.

I could hear moans coming from a cubicle as I left the bathroom. Maybe I could get my acquaintances a hooker and they would die of an STI? There was always hope. I stop at the group of men. I lean against the chair and give them a smirk, drawing their attention to me.

“I hate you all. I would love to hack you all to pieces and watch the light drain from your eyes. I wouldn’t care if you all went home and were hit by traffic until you slowly bled to death. I find everything you do distasteful and I will kill myself if this horrific torture continues.” I said, loudly. Chin stuck out, chest puffed up, looking proud and dignified.

I’m greeted by a wave of laughter. Did I say that? Did they even hear me? Was that in my head, or did I use my vocal chords? Did my speaking voice sound better than theirs did in board meetings? Or was I merely mediocre?

“Nice one Jim!”

“White! We’re all off now.”

“Going home now Paul.”

“Back to the missus Andrew!”

“Another day, another thousand dollars! Hah! See ya’ tomorrow fella’.”

I received many pats on the back as they filed out of the club. Sitting down in the chair, I took my head in my hands.
I have all the characteristics of a human being: blood, hair, flesh, skin. But I don’t have one clear emotion except for envy and greed. I feel lethal, animalistic, my body tensed up in every muscle. Blissful agony; every second of the day. My pain is constant, sharp. I do not wish a good world for anyone, in fact: I wish them to feel my pain. No one can escape. Even after admitting to my truth, there is no end to my punishment and I gain no knew knowledge about myself. I fear my mask of reason is about to slip. This confession meant nothing. So I’ll continue my day to day lifestyle, with my social status intact and my routine still in place. But sometime soon someone will look in my eyes and just see me. I am simply not there.