I sat in my dusty room, staring at the unpacked boxes and the mattress on the floor, taking in the old, creaky house. The sound of my parents becoming acquainted with our new neighbors combined with my nose, acquainting itself with the musty smell of old wood and rot. As I sat alone with my thoughts, my eyes fell upon my vanity. I assumed the reason the old owner had left it to us was because it’s attached to the wall and would’ve been a hassle to remove, but I couldn’t help noticing small drawings etched into the sides. Emotionless stick figures of disproportionate bodies staring outward towards the white, flaky walls. Then my eyes caught the mirrored reflection of themselves. I reached up to touch my own face to confirm that I was not smiling. I was not smiling, so why was the “me” in the mirror?
Perhaps I was delusional. After all, the therapist had not refilled my medication yet. Which was why my unfortunate parents allowed me to stay in my room while they forced smiles and false stories of my childhood, fabricated from the false hope of a wrong diagnosis. The neighbors, of course, believed them. Staring back at my sneering reflection, I was mesmerized. Was this the daughter my parents were painting? I stood and walked toward my uncanny doppelganger, but she stayed sitting. She was just smiling, beaming. Why was she smiling? I reached out to touch the mirror and was heaved forward.
I sit staring out at white, flaky walls, packed boxes, and a bed with no frame. Watching dust particles permeate the air, suffocated by mothballs and rotting wood. I am held hostage by disproportionate drawings of stick thin bodies. Would anyone hear me from behind the tempered glass of my vanity? Perhaps this is for the best. Now my parents can live out their fantasies, and my mirror has finally. Stopped. Smiling.