A mirror image: it belonged to a girl who had run with her heart and laughed with her belly; but who had knowm that happiness was not a lifestyle, nor a mentality, but a virtue: a short lived one at that. The image grew –some may even say it blossomed- but they only saw the image, as the girl shriveled and died.
So the rose sprouted petals lush with flavor and innocence and all that made flowers grow in the springtime, as well as made young girls blossom into stunning young women. The image followed in suit, playing her part, dancing with bashful elegant eyelashes, and gloved hands of smooth silk that tingled the imagination of young gentlemen.
“The prettiest rose in the garden” they called her. And she glowed and shone and basked in the compliments, the admiration, and even the jealousy-which she detected in the side glances and swift handshakes, and saw with the eyes on the back of her head she sometimes pretended to have to point out her superiority.
And the image came to absorb the role- to step into the footprints marked on the floor by vain attempts to comb out knots or fasten on a corset- and the shriveled dead body was brushed underneath the legs of the mirror, to befriend the dust and grind, and call home the cracks on the wall hidden by the elegant mirror due to shame.
Time passed and the dead one was forgotten; for it had no identity, nor a face, personality or even an own mind. And how can a something survive without all of those? The image had each and every one, and she thrived.
Or so it seemed- maybe the leaves had only changed color due to the season, or maybe they turned brown because their hearts and spirit had evaporated, or maybe they knew of a belly laugh that used to be once upon a time- and the image started to notice the leaves. She noticed how they were being enchanted by melancholy tunes; were fading, and disappearing. The wind that had brushed the golden petal locks from her eyes now sliced at her nose and forehead. And the flowers growing all around her no longer sang her praise in idolization, but hugged the ground and turned away from the sun.
The compliments now turned to forced remarks not worth the effort, but said anyway through gritted teeth so as not to let tradition die in fear of losing themselves and their “rich histories”. The young gentleman who had sprang fireworks in her heart now stood as an old rotten book with torn pages and dirty smudges, that had been read one too many times, in such a manner than even though you knew the words, you got no joy out of blurting them out before their turn came. And the jealousy got old; with a pointy nose and wart on her nose, she turned into rumors and flew out of the third story window.
The image- who had never had any need for reassurance of her features- searched desperately for a mirror, to remind herself of the exact shape of her eyes, mouth and nose; but more to remind herself of her existence.
Yet where is a mirror image supposed to find a mirror? In her hunt, she came upon the tainted window of a black car- yet because she did not know what a car was, or what exactly a ‘tainted window’ was, she assumed this to be a mirror- and threw her body in frantic hopelessness upon it, dubiously but with haste focusing her eyes of hot tears and unhealed despair on her image.
She looked, and saw a pair of eyes like the ones plastered all over the magazines in the saloon; cheeks like those on the sitcom that blocked the television screens of every small house right before dinner; lips that belonged to every model in the cover of the makeup catalogues that she paid for each week only to throw them out because she’d already bought most of the products anyway; a pair of hands that were mass produced for every starlet to massage the shoulders of the male main character; and a personality put together piece by piece by the media, society, and every snide remark, smirk or otherwise intentionally cruel act considered a crucial art of mastery by all who were anyone, and by none who were everyone.
The image had consumed the girl, and the role had consumed the image.
But when everything before you and after you and all that is you isn’t really you at all, what do you do? Blank lollipop eyes, in the flavor of drugs and pain mixed together, cringed at the abyss of history, and would-be bliss of a future that would never be, and the role left the image, and the image left the girl, and the cracks on the wall were emptied, as an unknown was blown by the piercing wind to a position a few inches from those feet that had been imprinted on the floor.
Without knowing why-perhaps the wind whispered it to her, or maybe the dust had told her to- it,SHE, drew back her fist and with an unknown and somewhat miraculous strength, broke the mirror into concaved pieces, all scattered upon the floor not unlike those of a puzzle, yet in a fashion the plagued fear into the heart of Olympic puzzle solvers . A cool tingling of her skin captured her slow to move eyes, as she felt before she saw blood running down her fist.
She knew it was blood. But it was blue, and red, and green, and purple, and black and yellow. And she didn’t know- couldn’t know, wouldn’t know- or maybe it didn’t even matter… Yet she thought, and scrutinized, and thought some more, but…just could not figure out what color blood was supposed to be.
The belly laugh never returned, and the pieces lay on the floor still, in acquaintance with the belly laugh and the unrhythmic breathing, as she unknowingly glided in front of another mirror, and new cracks on the wall.