Published by: June Robert De Guzman
Date Published: November 17, 2022
Time Published: 4:40 PM
TW: Mentions of Stabbing
Category: PROSE
Theme: Narcissism
Synopsis: Back when panniers and corsets were a thing, an era for exclusive porcelain skin made its opening; A grandiose remark to society’s incomparable perspective. Inside a manor filled with fortune, lived tenants who have stayed and soon handed in their dinner pail by the time hysteria knocked. The manor’s entrance usually arouses people on a somber afternoon. Is that a new tenant I smell?
<i>Mirrors, mirrors on an empty wall. Same images, and faces do they show and call?
In all of these frames, only thee see thee; different sizes and shapes only show, who was she. </i>
Narrowing along the corridors of the eclectic-goth-influenced household resides a galaxy of reflective portraits. In the bedroom, living room, kitchen, and on the walls of the veranda, somewhat unusual places but believe there it was.
Is it somewhat safe to say that the garden doesn't include any of it? Most definitely not. It won't stop her from reminiscing about the soft heart shape of her face, arrow spewing bow-shaped lips. A plane-like, keen snout with tantalizing almond eyes with the hood that opens and closes its sight to the world; to the calm waters of the nearby fountain.
On a calm morning, you will find her standing by the fountain. Not to watch the water, just to fill her pride to the brim. If not, inside. In the hall's mirror walls, in the living room, a body mirror across the sofa. One standing by her closet, right beside the drapes. A golden rectangle faced the dining table just as she was indulging in her meal.
At different times of the day, her unusual form of entertainment.
It remains uncertain whether she really finds these mirrors pretty; or the image that stands opposite to her position.
Not a day would you see her not looking at her reflection.
It happened every single day, night, or even before the sunrise. For how long she was staying in the manor.
______
It was a cold September when the typhoon came. Also the first time she experienced this turbulent weather. She clutched her already-soaked petticoat while she ran for her daily routine at the fountain.
She reached the fountain, panting. All there was to do was to check on her looks, repetitively. What makes this time’s check-up different? Her feeble fingers held onto the edges of the fountain while her sight slowly glanced down. That’s when things start to get blurry.
Raindrops sprinkled the supposed-to-be calm waters creating ripples. Her image became distorted; she was frantic. Waiting for the scene to change, she started snapping a delirious look. Making things even worse. She thought to herself, that was not her. From the edges, her palms made their way to her cheeks. Pulling, and stretching every inch to the jaw.
A loud wail battled with the sky’s loud rumble. The noise came from none other than hers.
Her trembling limbs helplessly made their way inside the manor. Speeding up every two skips, she still has a lot of mirrors to question. “Who are you?” she questioned a wall mirror as if it were a person…as if it could reply.
She had reached the end of the hallway interrogating each and every frame. Did she receive a response? The hall was soulless.
It was the same in every room, no matter how big and clear it was, it never gave any answer. The last words were always from her. Hysteria swallowed her to the point she became oblivious to the mayhem surrounding her. Hair and dress flooded with sweat and tears, back leaning forward, arms battling the urge to be numb, pasta-cooked legs finding their way to the next dungeon; her body’s complete madness.
All and everything to her was straight-up absurd. She could never accept everything she sees. Did the mirrors lie to her? Or was she creating fantasies of unimaginable circumstances?
Of all the havoc she had caused, gladly the manor wasn’t set on fire.
She bumped into a turntable, playing a tragic symphony. The sonata coordinated well with her cries and screams; her emotions were unbearable.
Finally reaching the last mirror in the bathroom, she was not there to check anymore. Not there to ask, and not there to plead. Her trembling hands reached for the last frame. Teeth gritting, and brows furrowed she had enough of what there was to see.
The mirrors had lied to her, it was not always for what she was meaning to see.
The mirrors had not lied to her, for what there was to see was the reflection of who she—both never and—ought to be.
Since when did mirrors lie? And did they tell the truth?
Who was distorted? The mirror or the person? The wretched mind of the person.
She was banging her head onto the mirror, trying to break into another room where she thought the real she was. Hoping to enter the dimension where her lost beauty resides.
But it was too late. The mirror’s broken. It was like breaking a curse, the curse coming from her own.
Wincing from every subtle movement her arms could ever make wasn't enough. She crawled to the broken mirror; stabbing every part of her body.
One last thought had entered her mind; one last chance.
She knelt in front of her bathtub with one shard striking her abdomen, a big one to her clavicle, and small cuts all over her torso. It looked as if she got stabbed by her image.
Her porcelain fingers clutched onto the edges of the tub, joints almost broken. There was another option, look back to the water in hopes of seeing her “true” image again. She desperately reached for the tap with her body leaning in, rotating it until it didn't. Her cries echoed through the bathroom, the tub making it even louder.
As the gelid waters gushed together with her crimson vessel, it came to the point that the tub was overflowing.
In the bathtub where her lifeless body lay, it continued to spew cold water. She never got to make a final glance.
Broken shards and dispersed puzzles had caused her tragic demise. Or was it?
____
March came and the daffodils surrounded the fountain. Every corner of the mossy manor had the flower standing. It bloomed as if it was for her; it did because it was only meant to be a requiem of her.
Until the next tenant…
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