Saturday, August 2, 2014

The Mirror

“It’s time to wake up,” whispered a soothing, almost undetectable voice. “It’s time to wake up for school.” 

Debbie’s eyes slowly opened. She looked around the room, but saw no one. And yet, the voice persisted. 

“It’s time to get dressed.”

With blurred vision, Debbie rolled onto her side and mustered up the strength to emerge from her bed. She had enjoyed an interruption-free sleep for the third straight night, a small victory to Debbie. As she inched toward the bathroom, she brushed her hands along her stomach. She felt her ribs protruding from her torso. 

“It’s time to look at yourself,” the voice said menacingly. “It’s time to stand before the mirror.” 

Debbie let out a yawn. She bathed and clothed herself in a way that seemed intentionally slow, perhaps to spite the voice that filled her head. Each time she would pass the mirror, she would avert her eyes, making sure to avoid a confrontation with the physical manifestation of the unrelenting voice. 

“I know what you’re doing. What’s the matter? You don’t want to see yourself today? Is that it?” The voice’s tone had shifted from soothing to virulent. 

Though Debbie had fought its influence for years, and had grown sadly accustomed to its perpetual badgering, she often found herself conceding victory to the maniacal voice embedded in her damaged psyche. No matter how determined her efforts, the voice almost always found a way to persuade her to bring it to life. It fed off of her misery, and its figure reflected Debbie’s perception of herself. 

She glanced at the mirror, but remained at an angle from which she could only see a reflection of the door. She felt helpless. Her body impulsively made its way before the mirror. Now, standing perfectly in front of her reflection, Debbie furiously closed her eyes. She searched for the inner strength to conquer the voice, her personal nemesis since the age of twelve.

“Open your eyes, Debbie. What’s the matter, you can’t stand to see me?” 

Feeling her strength subsiding, Debbie began to speak: “You are not me. Leave me alone! Please, stop!”

But to no avail. 

Her eyes shot open. Her jaw dropped instantaneously. The figure staring back at her was not her - she was sure of it. It was a monster. It was her mind urgently attempting to strip her of her sanity. But its gaze was so powerful. She couldn't look away. 

The voice only grew louder. “You don’t like what you see, do you?” 

Almost catatonic, tears began to well in Debbie’s eyes. Even through the liquid she could see the monster staring back at her. Its hair was greasy. Its stomach lined with rolls of fat. Its face was covered in unavoidable acne. But the figure in the mirror wasn’t crying. No, it was far past crying. You could see the pain in its eyes. A blatant physical indication of its misery seemed unnecessary. In its face, death was near. 

“Why don’t you just kill yourself? What is your life even worth?” 

Debbie looked away from the mirror and down at her wrist. It looked small, frail, even childlike. She reached for her cheek, but found that there was nothing to grab - only bone. She searched for her breasts, but they had been gone for years. She tried to internalize the rapid deterioration of her body, but her efforts were thwarted each time she gazed again at the figure.

Feeling she’d reached her tipping point, Debbie reached for the soap dispenser sitting beside her sink’s faucet. Drawing on her experience from her days as an athlete, a distant memory for Debbie at this point, she erratically cocked her arm back and, with all of the might her tiny frame could offer, threw the metal dispenser at the mirror. To her dismay, the object failed to so much as crack her foe. 

“You can’t win. Even if you break this mirror, you’ll always be you. You’ll always be too fat and too unstable."

Debbie picked the dispenser up and launched it at the mirror again. It anticlimactically bounced off and landed on the floor. She tried again. Again. Again. Tears began streaming down her face. Her neck’s veins bulged from her skin. With spit dripping from the sides of her lips, she finally yelled, “Why won’t you leave me alone?! What do you want from me?!” 

She sunk to the floor, crying profusely, unable to gather her thoughts. The voice grew louder, but its words became increasingly unclear. A swirl of deafening noises filled her head. A sharp pain began to materialize in her stomach. Her breathing grew faster, her heart rate skyrocketed, her courage was rapidly disappearing. 

Finally, she threw her body on top of the toilet and vomited. Nothing but stomach acid slid through her cracked and yellow teeth. 

The voice was quiet, but even in silence it relished its victory. 

1 comment:

  1. Thank you. You captured a story that belongs to so many, wove it as your own, expressed it with vivid words and organization, and created this beautiful masterpiece that spoke to me. While I have not been the victim that Debbie is, I found the mirror's voice in this story to be so... well...accurate. So deprecating and disparaging and diminishing and.. that was lovely alliteration. Thank you for expressing the voice that I know I hear, and the image I know I see, if only to remind us to not end up like Debbie. Thank you.