Mirrors, Mirrors Everywhere

Chapter 1

As I stood up on the the railing of the bridge, millions of thoughts raced through my train wreck of a brain. The harsh rain drenched me while the angry wind slapped me in the face with my own disagreeable hair. I stared down, looking at the cars going at least 10 miles above the speed limit, continuing my thoughts. 

I looked at a seemingly black (or perhaps it was just the rain) truck. I looked to the girl, whose face I could barely make out, driving. My thoughts, still racing, wondered if she hated herself. They wondered if she didn't eat to feel better. They wondered if she wore a convincing fake smile everyday, like me. I pondered and pondered about this girl that I would never even meet. I simply noticed her, for only a small fraction of a short second. 

Gazing back upon the road beneath the bridge in it's entirety, I wondered how many girls, or boys for that matter loathed their absolute beings. Ten? Twenty? Fifty? Too many. The answer is too many. But why? When you've been blessed with life then why hate it? The answer? I don't know. Perhaps I never will. Maybe you never will. Never is a long time, and that is something neither of us have. Life is short anyway.

Why stand on the edge of a bridge and think about all these depressing things, you may ask. What is the point, no goal, no, object of life? I can tell you one thing from experience- it's not standing on the bridge's rails in the rain. 

I step down, like I have countless times, to find my self past curfew, like many times. Coming home to my parents everyday is no problem at all, I enjoy their company. It's myself that I'm stuck with. But I'm the only self I've got so we (we being me and myself) have got to stick together. 

I'm greeted by a tall glass object- shiny and reflective, also an exceptional liar. I stare into the mirror that I had become obsessed with and told myself that it was lying. Trying to tear my eyes away (unsuccessfully) from the object, I started to turn around, only to be greeted by yet another, this time small and circular. 

Looking into my muddy brown hair (physically and metaphorically) and brown eyes I, like always, thought. When did society decide only blue eyes were pretty? What about the gorgeous cow eyes out there? Thousands of questions and not a single answer. Perhaps someone knows the answer. Maybe the object of life is to find your someone that answers your question. Or maybe it's pizza. Which happens to be in the kitchen. I glanced, most likely drooling, to the gooey slices of heart disease. One piece won't hurt, I tell myself. 

"Oh but it will." My subconscious reminded me.

If my subconscious had a face I would've eaten my pizza in it but she did not so I settled for the table.

"I can feel you staring." I say, not turning around.

Michael, my younger brother with an extensive vocabulary walked in the room.

"How could you possibly have felt my presence? Did you see me in a mirror?" He asked. An undying love of questions without answers runs in the family.

"Is the one by the front door new?" I ask him.

"Yeah, how many are in this fun house now? 26?" 

"Roughly." I replied. Everyone collect something- dolls, stamps, maybe even bottle caps. But not my mother, she collects mirrors.

"Mirrors that tell only the truth." My subconscious interjected. 

"No one asked you." I said, reply to the fictitious character out loud.

"What?" Michael asked while stealing a slice of the pizza which I had claimed. 

I motioned to my mouth versus saying something along the lines of "don't talk to me, I'm eating." 

Michael rolled his eyes and I watched him leave the room (with my own eyes and 3 mirrors). 

Deciding that I had wasted enough time talking to the inferior, I went up to my territory (yes, with the remainder of the pizza) only to gaze at my piles upon piles of homework and reject it for some trashy reality show whose main character I could most likely not recall within an hour. I enveloped myself in a bubble of fake happiness, which I almost tricked myself into believing. I snapped back to reality when a godforsaken mirror revealed my homework once more. With a quick trip to my desk's handy pencil sharpener, it had begun. 

Instead of actually doing my homework as someone of you normal humans might, I froze in horror upon realizing what day it was. Sunday. Sunday night. And what do Sunday nights bring, children? That's a question we can all answer. 

Monday Mornings (noun): A horrific time made simply for the torture of the under aged.

Synonyms: hell