Genre: Horror
Content Warnings: Gore, violence, eating disorder, depression
Published in RAWHEAD Special Issue #1: Bloody Bones
In my mirror lives a shadow, edges fading in hues of blue. Her gaze presses against the glass, hungry for a piece of me every time I pass her by.
Some mornings she will greet me from a far corner of the room. She will hover behind me as I stretch my jeans over one leg at a time. I avoid looking at her.
Acknowledgement feeds her; solidifies her frame and sharpens the curved V’s between each finger. I know that if I do look, even for the briefest of moments, I will see her everywhere.
Downstairs, her dark eyes will creep into the reflection of the microwave, shift between the grease of fingerprints, and glide across the window of the balcony door below the chipped wooden grilles. Against the backdrop of a dark 5 AM sky, I sip my coffee, finding refuge in the pale hue of light from my laptop and hiding in the far corner of my living room where her eyes can’t reach me. I inhale the bitter warmth as it settles in my throat.
I close my eyes and imagine I am back in a better place: on the other side of town where the sun breaks through the clouds, a strip of light illuminating a lipstick-stained cup of Rooibos tea and a plate of unfinished salad, cooked green peas stacked in a heap to the side. There my smile is genuine. There my friends haven’t mentioned the darkening circles under my eyes yet.
On days like that, a borrowed courage surges through me. I gaze defyingly in every mirror and window I pass, anchoring my hands on my hips. She hides from me then, unable to withstand the might of my caffeine-powered smile. Who’s scared now? I huff under my breath, not loud enough for her to hear.
But today is not like that.
I kick off my muddy shoes in the narrow hallway of my home, discard the umbrella and let it bleed into the carpet. The leather strap of my bag weighs heavily on my shoulder, edges carving a rectangle into my skin. I drop it.
In the kitchen I pour boiling water into a cup of noodles. The steam forms a droplet on my nose as I gaze down. I watch as the powdered onion and garlic melts. The starch slowly expands and I feel her behind me, eagerly waiting to greet me. She is attracted to the cold stain on the left side of my chest, to the dampness of my socks, and to my cold fingertips desperately pressed against the hot cup.
If I acknowledge her now, it’ll be a long night. So I close my eyes and I eat my meal before it’s ready.
I chew.
I am on the sofa under my weighted blanket. Commercials flood my living room with bright flashing lights. My phone lights up and my gaze breaks away from the TV screen to the coffee table.
All it takes is for my eyes to drift from my phone to the half-empty bottle of cheap supermarket wine on the table; she is waiting for me.
Across the thin neck of the bottle her face stretches out, her mocking grin pulled apart in dark vertical lines between the green and yellow hues. I don’t want to look, but I do. I can’t stop, lured in by the unspoken promises of relief her presence could bring. She comes closer, eyes slowly widening as she reaches for me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and brace myself. She scratches her nail over the cartilage of my ear, then traces a narrow pathway over my jawline and chin.
I focus – try to conjure a good memory. Thin, shaky lines form a black-and-white illustration: three smiling faces dancing in the living room to a cassette tape of a favourite childhood song, me hoisted up in my father’s strong arms. I focus on filling in the smallest pieces of this colouring page. Hazelnut brown for my mother’s eyes, cherry red for the small plastic feathers on her earrings, salmon pink for the blush spread across her cheeks.
It’s not much. But it’s enough. I can swing my fist out from under my blanket and fling the bottle across the room; it crashes against the hardwood floor.
I slowly sit up and stare at the damage. She is gone.
When I finally clean up the mess, I stand on one of the shards and it cuts deep but doesn’t hurt. I lift up my foot. Blood drips from the wound and into the small pools of wine below; I pull the shard from my flesh and on its surface, she’s there. Smiling.
Night. Day. Back to work. I am standing at the counter of the office kitchen for my 11:45 AM breakfast, waiting for the hot water to fill my mug of Cup-a-Soup. I stare at the pale chunks of dehydrated meat.
From upstairs comes the sound of chatter and laughter, colleagues who ignore their troubles with useless gossip and hollow smiles that slick in the gaps between the layers of social hierarchy. Usually, the earlier in the week it is, the more successful I am with small talk and putting on a convincing smile. But as the days pass, my ability to blend in decreases and my mask slips. I wonder if they can see the traces of her.
Two colleagues come down the stairs. Their smiles morph when they see me. From happiness to pity, as if my limbs are wrapped in white-and-red FRAGILE tape. Still not sleeping well? one of them asks. I struggled with this a few months ago too. You should try—
I turn back to my Cup-a-Soup.
Unsolicited advice comes in repetitive lists that I have memorised. People want me to validate them. To make them feel like they are helping. They emphasise that they have struggled too, as if that helps me.
My colleagues continue their conversation and I feel relief and exhaustion. It’s only 12PM, but I long for the bottle of unopened wine in my fridge.
Day. Night. I sit down on the edge of my bed, its wooden skeleton verbally objecting to the burden of me. I let my shoulders drop, my head hang heavy. I needed companionship tonight, and I have greeted the regret that the liquor has brought to my doorstep.
1 AM. Each laboured breath fills me with swallowed confessions, borrowed identities, and unreturned smiles.
2 AM. Late-night clockouts, bronze medals, and cigarette smoke.
3 AM. My mother sitting on the edge of her bed, her face buried in her shaking hands.
I can’t go on, she cries. I want to die.
I focus with all my might. Back to the living room dances and smiles. But the lines bend and the image warps into the image of my parents screaming at each other in the hallway. A hole punched in the bedroom door. Me sitting under the dining table with my arms wrapped around my legs.
Stop.
A rectangular hole in the ground. The first scoop of dirt thrown on the lid of my mother’s plain elm coffin. Standing at her grave, holding my father’s hand. The life drains from my face, colours spilling outside the vivid black lines.
Stop.
I want it to stop.
She responds to my call.
I see the shadow move from the corner of my eye; her palms pressed flat against the bedroom mirror. Her lips twitch, parting slightly; her foetid breath fogs the glass on her side. She brings a pain that overshadows that which is unbearable. She is the Devil I know and this time, I welcome her.
She whispers words I can only feel. Their vibrations enter through my stomach and shoot up my oesophagus, trying to force their way out of me. Acidic residues of wine stew up, stinging the back of my throat.
I retch.
I cover my mouth with my hand. Cold sweat sticks between my palmar creases, my life line pulled deeper into its arch with every throb of my heart. The bed creaks as I shift and try to keep the contents of my stomach in place; I know it’s useless.
It’s coming.
I run to the bathroom. She is waiting for me there, in the cabinet mirror. I vomit into the sink, my insides twisting. I feel her hands firmly on my shoulders. She’s ripped through the veil between our worlds. No, it was me. I invited her in. I did this. I want this.
I look up and see her standing behind me in the reflection, hands on my shoulders. Each of her nails is a different length, raw and blackened at the tip.
She cages my face behind bony, pale bars. She drives her nails into my skin, and it feels good. The pain grounds me.
She shoves two fingers into my throat. I gag and vomit again. Acid slices through my tongue as it forces its way out of me. I stare at the vomit in the sink. I try to recognise shapes in the brown mush and trace my finger through chunks of chicken, this my sandbox.
I look back in the mirror. The shadow caresses my face as if to comfort me, then strokes the back of my head with her nails. Goosebumps cover the back of my neck. I want to feel.
What?
I want to feel.
She fists her hand into my hair and slams my head against the mirror. My forehead collides with fracturing glass. My skin slices open. A sharp pain explodes from inside my head as bone shatters and my skin melts into hers. I am shaking. And when I look at my fragmented face in the broken mirror, I don’t recognise myself. I am a spectator—too captivated by the broken film that is playing on repeat to look away.
Because it feels good.
It feels so good.
She digs a finger into each corner of my mouth and pulls on my flesh. My cracked, trembling lips carve into a smile, pale gums illuminated under the fluorescent flicker of the distant hallway lamp. She, too, is smiling. She is happy we are together again.
Her fingers, like spiders, crawl across my cheek, discontent. She is never happy for long. She sinks them into the gash on my forehead.
I cry out and stumble backward, clutching at my face. I slam into the wall behind me. Pain shoots up my back and neck. I twist sideways and my temple collides against the tiles, then my forehead, again and again.
Every bolt of pain sends a wave of delicious torture through me, piling layer upon layer of weight in my body that anchor me down. Her touch slides down from my forehead to my eyes and her jagged nails slice in. Pain erupts like needles puncturing through my pupils. Hot tears stream down my cheeks, and I wail from the deepest part of my chest. She wraps her fingers around my throat, squeezing so hard it feels like my trachea will collapse. My breathing catches, like a fly slamming itself against the same spot of the window, hoping to escape.
I am exhausted. I want to sleep.
But it just feels too good.
I bang my head against the tiles one more time, and my teeth sink into my tongue. I taste blood. The bathroom spins around me and I crumple, back colliding with the wall. My eyelids are heavy now. I let myself fall down. The hard cold tile feels good against my cheek. I think I can sleep now.
4AM. A dull ache in my temple wakes me up. The bulb on the ceiling is a dotted blur trembling between my lashes. Dusty strands of a spiderweb hang from the ceiling like translucent wires from which its marionette came loose. My limbs are heavy, my shirt soaked in tears and blood. As soon as I close my eyes, I feel myself drifting off again. I’ll sleep just a little longer.
In my mirror lives a shadow, edges fading in hues of blue.
Joy Florentine 