Safety is Relative

Chapter Twenty Seven- Mirror, Mirror

I’ve heard that mirrors don’t ever create truly accurate reflections of you. They may be clear, they may be shiny, but when it comes down to it, all they really are are bits of glass stretched over aluminium. Thanks to the glass, the image you see is slightly distorted.

Only slightly?

As I stare at the girl in front of me, I don’t recognise her at all.

Of course, there are the common features. The ones that I know are mine. My mum’s nose, passed down from generation to generation. Fair hair and skin, which at the moment looks too pale, too white. Blue eyes, slightly too deep-set in my head to look beautiful, but I have always loved their colour. They change with the months, sometimes green, sometimes grey, but always retaining a clear blue tint. I love pale eye colours.

A flash of silvery eyes.

My fingers grip the sink as I gasp, shutting my eyes. The girl disappears, and all I can see is the comforting reddish-black of my eyelids. The image is gone as fast as it came, and I cannot recall it. It’s slipped through the ragged net of my memory, lost just like the rest of me.

Quicksilver.

I keep doing this. My brain thinking jarringly, shuddering from one idea to another, limping along doggedly and then getting fixated on a small phrase which means absolutely nothing. The doctor said it was normal. Just simple short-term amnesia.

‘That’s why I remember about how stupid mirrors are made and not what’s been happening for the past month!’ I hiss at the girl in front of me, through gritted teeth.

Short-term amnesia. What a cold, hard phrase to describe the complete mess my head is in at the moment. At the moment? I question myself. Or over the last month? Over the last few months? When did I first start forgetting things?

I don’t know. I can’t remember.

I can’t remember how I ended up being the girl in the mirror. Because she is me, whether I like it or not, even if she doesn’t feel like me.

Imagine going to sleep one night being yourself, your normal self, and then waking up the next morning and suddenly everything has changed. Your hair is strangely longer, you’ve lost weight, your cheeks are hollow, you have bruises everywhere and when people speak to you there’s nothing that makes sense in what they say. And everyone treats you like you’re a glass vase- something once broken, hard to fix, and liable to shatter at any given moment.

I can remember painting my nails a few days ago, but I can’t remember how I chipped nearly all of them, or even how I ripped my thumb nail completely off.

‘It’s all gone,’ I whisper, staring at the red raw skin behind my half-formed nail. ‘Where did you go?’

‘I’m right here,’ someone says, making me jump.

I turn around and suddenly I’m in school, in the girls’ bathroom, standing by the sinks. Sophia Mason is standing in front of me, washing her hands, and frowning with that all too recognisable concern.

‘How did I get here?’ I ask, looking around.

‘You’ve been standing there since I came in,’ she says, turning the tap off. ‘You were just sort of staring at yourself in the mirror.’

It’s not me in the mirror. It’s a different Rue. It’s not me. I’m not her. I’m not bruised or beaten or starved. I’m me. And I’m normal.

The thing that scares me most is the thought of the memories coming back. Sometimes I want them back desperately, so that everything will return to normal, that I will stop being so scared, so confused all the time. But at the same time, I’m not aware of these holes in my head. It’s only when people ask me things that I remember I have amnesia. It’s only when I walk out of the bathroom stall and see myself in the mirror that I remember I’m not myself.