Method, Materials, Madness
See the mirror.
Avoid the mirror.
Give in to the mirror.
There's my nose-my large, bumpy nose ("Your beautiful Roman nose," says Mom).
Now my skin. God, my skin. Red spots brewing beneath the surface-a constellation of imperfections-lurking, waiting, multiplying.
Dammit. This shouldn't be happening.
No more periods, no more breakouts. Wasn't that the trade-off?
But here they are, flaring up like some cruel joke.
Like my body didn't get the memo.
New mirror:
The hallway mirror. My magic mirror. The only one that lies to me in the right way.
Let my gaze soften.
Too late.
The spots emerge into focus, sharp as glass. Must be the lighting.
Definitely the lighting.
Another mirror. Now.
Not my bedroom mirror-too close to the window. Too honest.
Think, think.
Emelia's room. Always dark in there.
Emelia's mirror:
Stand back.
Let the image blue until I'm a smear
A magic mist I've summoned to protect myself from the cruel precision of clarity.
Less sharp. Less pain.
Try again.
Adjust my eyes.
Dammit.
Nothing's changed.
No snapchat filter to smooth away the flaws.
Where's the concealer? I need to erase this.
It's bad. Very bad. ("It's not that bad," said Leila over lunch last week.)
But it is. It's horrid. Hopeless.
I can't go out like this.
The day is ruined before it starts.
Quick-the scale.
The only place where numbers don't lie.
They haven't gone up.
Good.
But...they haven't gone down, either.
Back to the mirror again.
My inner thighs. Still a little fleshy. Still a little much.
Nothing ever changes.
Relax my eyes. Blur it all.
It doesn't work.
She appears.
She-Me?
Which one is really me?
The one looking? Or the one looking back at me?
Tears gather. Unwelcome.
Now shame floods in. I don't want to be seen.
I don't even want to see.
I grip the bottle of concealer-tight-
then hurl it. At the mirror.
At her.
The mirror splinters. Her face fractures.
A rapid, forceful knock at the door.
"Ari? Are you in there?"
I can't answer.
I don't know.
I don't think I am.
