Vanity

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. I left that carcass behind a good bit ago. Yeah, maybe what I’ve been doing isn’t moral. You wouldn’t be so judgmental if you saw the things I’ve seen, if you knew what was chasing me. The only way to stay safe is to keep moving, so that’s what I’ve been doing. I guess this is my confession. And I truly hope it helps.

I’m an oaf of a guy who seems to have something against deodorant, though I don’t look like the all-natural healthy type. My skin is pretty ruddy and my hair is plastered down with oil that I don’t think came from any fancy bottle. My room is dark and dank, a half-eaten pizza God knows how old sits in the corner. My eyes are a striking blue and I quite like them. The flesh changes, everything changes, except for one thing. I lean into my reflection and stare at my eyes. The colors change, the shape sure, that too. But that black hole in the middle stays the same no matter who you are or where you go.

I don’t want to stay here, but at this point beggars can’t be choosers. Maybe this one is who I’m meant to be and where I need to be. I sigh and attempt to smooth the wrinkles of this gray shirt in vain. I want to get out of this room, though I’ve already gotten somewhat used to the smell. I go to the dresser and pull open drawers at random until I find the shirts. There’s a nice blue one that I think will bring out my eyes so I pull it on. It’s a little tight. I give myself another onceover in the mirror and something draws me in. I hinge forward until my nose is touching the cold surface.

My head is pounding and a high-pitched noise like a tea kettle going off fills my ears, my head, any empty space in my body feels the irritating itch of this sound. My large hands instinctively grasp for something and in one I squeeze a half-empty water bottle, barely aware of the liquid dripping down my wrist. The other hand grips dirty carpet, nails collecting dust, lint, bits of skin, whatever lives within the fibers.

Something is different here. I sit up and breathe, dizzy but preparing to stand. Before I do, I look back at the mirror. It’s full-length and I can see the top half of my new body from my seated position. I can see my eyes. I stare at my reflection again and the eyes stay the same while the face morphs fuzzily out of focus. The eyes are angry. The eyes hate me. I hate them more. I know when anger is consuming me. It starts as a tightness in my chest and spreads through my body like there’s an accelerant pushing fire in every direction. When it hits my brain, I lose control.

I’m slamming my head into the mirror. I don’t feel anything. When my head doesn’t do the job, I punch it with my great new fists. Liquid falls down my wrists again but it’s dark and hot. I bang my head again and more blood splashes into these eyes I don’t trust and then I can’t see anymore, so I stop. I’m panting, surely this is more of a workout than this body has gotten in a long time.

The mirror shows a reflection that isn’t my own, and it’s taunting me. It shows me the same oaf of a young man, now cut, swollen, and bleeding. There’s not a scratch nor crack on the mirror.

I want to leave this room, but I can’t. I briefly remember how much it smelled at first, but now I don’t smell anything. I want to look at anything else, but I’m at the mercy of the mirror. I want to waste this body too, get away from this room, get away from this reflection. Yet, I’m on my knees and unable to pull away. This time the eyes morph and change. There’s green, hazel, brown, and blue… eyes so dark then so light it causes a crackling in my brain. The pain jumps around in my head like a hopping flea. The only thing that stays the same is the face surrounding the eyes as well as the pupil.

The pupils have seen so much death. Did I cause most of the deaths? Sure. In my defense, I didn’t cause them all. I quite liked some of those bodies. I would’ve stayed there but I had to jump when something outside my control was about to claim them. Others, I just stayed until I found something better. There’s always got to be something better. Anything to avoid sinking into the black holes that came with every face I tried on.

Those two black holes have been following me, waiting to claim me, angry that I’ve had the energy to escape their gravitational pull. They were in every mirror I’ve ever seen, every reflection I’ve tried to avoid. They keep finding me because I have to take at least a glimpse at what I am when I switch fleshy shells.

I hear the grating noise that is glass grinding and breaking. For all the blood I’ve shed, the mirror has finally conceded with a small fission. I’m triumphant. A smile stretches across my ugly face and I laugh, blinding myself with delightful tears and a little bit of a blood. At last, I wipe my face to see my enemy and gloat once more.

The mirror shows a reflection that is my own. I see nothing, I am nothing, and I am finally gone.