The mirror

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I couldn’t stop the memories from flooding back into my beaten, bruised mind. They were paralyzing in their strength, and it was all I could do to keep from keeling over at the painful things I had so desperately tried to unsuccessfully escape. They were things of internal struggle, attempts at cutting away from the world, and enduring uncurbed hatred; they all settled uncomfortably at the pit of my stomach, and their dark tendrils of hurt incapacitated me.

            Unsteady breaths could hardly whisper by the tight gathering of tears lodged in the constricting confines of my throat; swallowing seemed impossible. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t shrug off the heavy force settled on my shoulders as I stood before my silent, formidable enemy.

 The eyes studying mine were set in a hard, flinty glare, her hands crossed defiantly against her trembling chin. Fighting her weakness was a losing battle, yet it seemed to be the only crack in her carefully built defense. Despite her admirable strength and persistence, I could never consider her beautiful. It was a silent, personal prejudice, and some may consider my long developed opinion unfair.

I was drawn to her eyes. Tired, slanted and worn, they seemed nearly closed in disgusted concentration. They flickered tiredly, yet there was some sort of untouchable guardedness to them. The dark, deep shades of brown were offset by yellow hued skin and thick eyebrows. Her nose was flat, her face a bit too rounded, her hair too dark. Years of suffering and exclusion clouded her features that, with their flat, endless planes could only be described as Asian, so completely unlike every single person she was surrounded with every day. Because of the unspoken racial exclusion, insecurity danced mockingly in a wretched, irate haze just out of her control, and I hated it almost as much as everything else about her. I hated how she didn’t fit into the complicated puzzle that others so easily glided into, hated her race, hated her silence against the noise others made against her.

Silent, ghostly silhouettes flanked her. A boy from kindergarten, smirking and mute. I remembered the feeling of iron vises tossing me down. A girl from seventh grade, giggling and pulling her eyes back with contemptuous fingers. I remembered the hoots that joined my presence every day after she vowed to make my life miserable. A spiteful parent, wishing me back to where I was from. His malice had silenced me since. My best friend, standing with reserved eyes. I remember running from her seemingly harmless joke and the detrimental after effects.

I wanted to get rid of her, get rid of them. Throw them back to my own personal hell they came from. Never had these ghosts left me. They were always there, mocking me.

In an unforeseen, unconscious verdict, my hand tightened into a white knuckled fist. Suddenly, it was airborne, and it seemed to hang in silence for an elongated, stilled second. Upon colliding with its target, cuts dashed a gory dance into unmarred flesh, impact displaced delicate bones into a limp slouch. Sharp surges of agony were suddenly insignificant as I anticipated her reaction. Would she stand? A super hero hardly noticing the car crunched against his leg? Or maybe retaliate with something even more hurtful?

Time seemed to wrench to an awful, grinding stop, and her horrified gaze met mine. Confusion. How did I finally stand up to her? Pain, finally facing what she had been to me my whole life.  Sadness. For being and enduring what she had. Resentfulness. She realized how much I hated her silent suffering.

 Like a movie set into slow motion, she slowly fell, clutching a hand to an expression wretched with trepidation at what would happen next. Her figure, the one I so detested, went to pieces.

 Slice by slice, spikes of glass fell in a deadly beautiful shower, distorting her figure. A light tinkling so contradictory to the gory mess sprawled across the floor acted as an awful theme song to the cascade, and those cheery tones seemed far more appropriate for a horror movie then real life. The shards of glass, so symbolic to the careful balance we had been living, finally shattered. The balance was broken.

 In a silent cry, tears flooded the choked barrier in my throat. The endless stream offered no savior, no lone life raft bobbing above the relentless torrent. It finally, after fighting so much resistance, joined the blood smeared floor glittering with deadly splinters of glass as I watched her, the one person I despised the most, slowly fall away from the door in broken shards.

I was finally alone, and I slowly became conscious of the hysterical convulsions racking my body. Kneeling beside where her broken figure laid, I felt the burden of what she went through her whole life, the callous racism, spiteful comments, and purposeful exclusion finally register. I finally accepted the burden, and destroyed the silence that refused to resist it.

I woke in a start, brow sweaty, digital clock glowing 3:15 a.m. After a fit of restless tossing and turning in twisted sheets, I finally rose, disoriented as my feet hit cool carpet. Careful to avoid catching any glimpse of my own personal enemy, I stumbled across the clean, clear carpet to my door, and clumsily removed the bearer of my nightmare from its back. With the mirror face down, I was finally able to sleep a pleasant, silent slumber.  

Author's Note

I want the pickiest review you can manage, I'm trying to get it to the point that I can enter it in writing competitions for scholarships. Pick it apart! Any review is appreciated.