© 2021 Oon Jia Wen. All Rights Reserved
Looking glasses were commodities of luxury, a sign of privilege. That she knew. She supposes it is peak entitlement, for her feelings of unappreciation towards the reflective glass. But there is no helping, none, for the hatred that welled and burned whenever she stared into it.
She hates it, truly, with every inch of being.
Deep in her bones, her entire soul.
She sighs, reaches the familiar rosewood door. Fingers twist the carved knob, and she steps into the comfort of her room, heads for her dressing table. As much as she hates the looking glasses in her room, there is nothing that can be done, nothing that she might do to convince the removal of them. And she cannot disagree, that they are useful.
Her eyes glance at her reflection, fingers reaching up as she sits. Millions of pins that once held her gold pulled out one by one. Painful it is, for the price to be born a woman is costly. She refuses to stare into the reflection.
No, not until she is done.
The candlelight flickers, her hair glows in the reflection; she is free for now. Fingertips press against cool surface, eyes staring into eyes. A deep breath, it isn't the first time, neither the last.
The world fades, and all left for the moment is a future that will never shape.
YOU ARE READING
Looking Glass
Gizem / GerilimShe hated looking glasses, for a future she knew she would not have every time she glanced upon it. Future held and cradled, precious , but not hers. . . . A story set very loosely during 1890s England, of future and premonitions, murder and preve...
