Mirror

A Story by Warda Ali

This is a 'one word topic' essay I wrote in class.

Mirror
My blood is clotting, but I am able to see. My flesh is rotting, but I am able to see. My heart is stopping, but I am still quite able to see. These nights have not blurred out my vision. These tears have not numbed out my eyes. This darkness has not taken away my sight. Despite these scars, these wounds and these nerve wrecking chains, I am still quite able to see, but what I see, is not me.
After all these years in containment, my hands and feet have gone numb. They no longer belong to me. It is as if these gruesome metal chains have stolen all the feeling from them, leaving behind nothing but weak, useless bones. A world beyond these chains is oblivious to me. They have now become a part of me, but taken away all emotion, all understanding, and all conscience. What they have not taken away is my ability to see. But what use do I make out of these blood-shot eyes, when what I see, is not me?
I remember the blood, red as roses. I remember the scream, loud as sirens. I remember the blackout, dark as secrets. But what I do not remember is looking this lifeless. My hair used to be long, lush and black as silk, but now, with all the black diffused to my soul, all that is left is strands of thin, white hair, just waiting to fall out, just as my life is. Just holding onto a strand, a strand that never breaks.
I blink my empty eyes. Once hazel brown, the color of autumn leaves. Now, the leaves have parched, leaving me with sulky, sleepy, and sorrowful eyes. They have sunken, like the soul that never was. I am alive, my soul has long gone.
I see my cheekbones are more prominent than ever. The pale white color of my skin makes them stand out as the last man standing. It is as if my face has been painted with a shade of ghostly white. The color of the snow that has been walked upon, the egg that has been cracked, or the eye that cannot see. But I do see. I see that there is nothing beneath the paint, other than bone, blame, and brutality.
To think that I was beautiful once makes a tear roll down my cheek, I mean, bone, and settle in yet another bone- my collar bone. Is this what is left of me? Just a beastly bundle of bone? A symbol for the dead and the dying. From the shoulders down, my body disappears behind a long, pale white piece of cloth that completely camouflages me. Who am I even trying to hide from? How many more lives will I take? How many more cries will I hear? How many more tears will I shed? My heart beats faintly, my stomach grumbles angrily, the tear vanishes secretly, but what I am focused on is what I can see. I am at war with myself, for one last time. I refuse to believe that what I see, is me.
I was never this bony. My skin was never this wrinkled. My lips were never this grey. My body was never this demented. My life was never this out of place. But this is what it is. I do not ‘look’ shattered, I am shattered.
My features were once sharp, but are now sagging, as if my skin is ashamed of my deeds. My eyebrows were once sleek and thin, now, they appear as the victims of a fire. My nose was once straight and structured, but now, I barely have one. To this dull day, I remember the manly fist, broad as bears, hard as rocks, and the way it jammed into my face, like a tidal wave hitting the banks. I remember the hatred in his eyes, the tensing of his muscles, the biting of his lip, the beating of his heart, the expanding and relaxing of his chest, the sound of his every breath. But what I fail to recognize now, in this dark, gloomy cell, is the figure staring back at me.
This mirror is lying. A false image is being reflected. I was never a killer, I was never old. What I am staring at cannot possibly be me! So I close my eyes, and try to drift myself away, like a sailor in the sea, but I fail to do so. I cannot turn a blind eye to myself. Not when I know that she is watching me. I cannot drift away, for I know, that the girl in the mirror I see, is no other than me. She is what I have become; she is what I will have to live with. Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the guiltiest of them all? Silence. Silence.