Creative Writing

'Life'

          I looked at the mirror to see the blue eyes staring back at me. The blonde hair glistening as usual, and the scowl marring her face. I sometimes wonder what my life would've been, if those eyes were brown, those locks were black, and that scowl was a smile.

          The scowl deepened as I caressed the cheek of the girl in the reflection. I sneered at her dimples, tried to scratch off her beauty spot, and wished that I could hammer in her perfect teeth. 

          Little miss perfect did not love the life she was living.

          Ramming a fist on the bathroom door would be her sister, and calling for her from the garage would be her father. The one who was currently out would be her mother, and the one talking with hushed whispers would be her brother and his girlfriend. 

          The girl in the mirror still glared back, not paying attention to the lives in the house. Her attention only on me. My attention only on her. 

          These were the moments where I wasn't 'miss perfect'. Where I didn't have to make fun of every unique person, where I didn't have to keep up the perfect facade. Where I could just see myself for who I truly am, and forget about the stupid little life I live. Where daddy gets money, mummy spends it, the son is athletic, and the daughters only giggle. 

          I looked around the room, finally breaking my contact with the girl in the mirror, who could glare and curse all she wanted, only in the bathroom. Only to her reflection. 

          I faced the bottles of hair dye, scents of candles, rainbows of makeup and the batches of shaving cream.

          One room in the house that was private. Not the closet which is closed. Not the bedrooms where you bed. Not the living rooms where lives were lived.

No.

          The only private room was this bathroom, where the masks went on. When dad dyes his greys and mum bathes with candles. Where sisters paint on makeup and the brother shaves his stubble. Where I become me again.

Not some miss perfect. 

Me.

          I feel my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living. I can feel them bending as I paste another smile. I feel them crack as I hug a friend, who whispers behind my back.

          Though I feel them best as I stare hard: at that girl who's not in the spotlight nor the runway, but stationary in the mirror. I feel them best as they sprain and break, the scowl so much stronger. I feel them crumble as I fall to the floor, the bruise forming as I hit the floor, somehow my tears hurting more.

          I look back at the bottles of hair dye, scents of candles, rainbows of makeup and the batches of shaving cream.  

          Once more I feel my bones; straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living.