Mirror, Mirror

Author note: Based on the song Mirror by BarlowGirl. The lines in bold are lines from the song. I do not own the song or the lyrics.

Mirror, mirror on the wall/Have I go it?
 
            Like the evil queen from the Snow White fairytale, she looks for acceptance in a piece of reflective glass; an inanimate object staring back at her. Its evil plans are worthy of Lucifer himself. It is deceptive and a liar, showing her only her worst fears and none of the truth.
 
‘Cause Mirror you’ve always told me who I am/I’m finding it’s not easy to be perfect
 
            The first thing she notices is the hair between her eyebrows. Leaning close, she picks out each individual one, counting aloud. Somewhere around four she loses track and starts over. When it becomes evident that she won’t be able to count them, she drops it. But they bother her so much that she just wants to reach up and rip them out one by one.
            You’ll be the only girl at your school with a unibrow. The mirror cackles. How embarrassing. Now you really won’t have any friends.
            As she’s raking the rest of her face for facial hair, her gaze lands on the blackheads dotting her cheeks. They have gotten worse over the past few weeks. Her mother had said that it was just stress and that they would disappear soon along with the red dots scattered on her forehead. That had made her feel better, but the mirror has other plans.
            Gross. No one can even look at you without noticing the enormous zits on your face. How can a boy talk to you, much less kiss you, with these monstrosities in the way?
            And her smile. When did her teeth get so yellow?
            There’s no way to fix that. No matter how many times you brush it’ll still be there. You’re gonna spend the rest of your life looking like a pirate.
            Her clothes were the worst part. She would wear dresses, but they were uncomfortable to sit in for eight hours every day at school. And none of the cute shirts at the mall fit her. The mediums were too tight and showed off all her fat and the larges made her look bigger than she was. So she stuck to wearing t-shirts and shopping for athletic shorts in the boys department.
            The short brown hair that always looked nicer down and curled under her chin was pulled back in a ponytail. Since it was so short, pieces fell out and stuck to the side of her cheeks as well as the back of her neck. Could she look any more like a guy?
            You may weigh 130, but you look like you weigh 150. Can’t you buy some clothes that even remotely look good on you?
            It’s the last straw. She stomps away from her trusted advisor and tears apart her closet. Clothes are flung on the bed, over the desk chair, over the floor. She finally finds it; the perfect dress. It’s pink and is covered in a flower pattern. There’s a layered belt wrapping around the waist, kind of like that of a cummerbund. A layered, three-dimensional flower clings to the right side of the belt.
            As she spins around the room, the dress flares out. She feels like a princess or one of those ballerinas that she used to be when she was little. It had been a while since she had put on the dress. She had bought it especially for Easter a few years before.
            “This will catch him off guard,” she mutters, determined to show the mirror that she could look cute. “There’s nothing he can say about this.” She stands in front of her old companion, hands on her hips, striking a pose that she had seen many models do in magazines. She waits for the praise, but it never comes. Instead, the mirror laughs.
            You thought that putting a dress on could make you pretty? Please! Look at the zits along your neckline. And the ones on your back; did you think of that before putting this on? What will people think when they’re walking behind you? And that hair—don’t get me started on the hair. You might as well shave your head and wear wigs the rest of your life. It will never look like the other girls’. You are a hopeless cause.
            Tears well up in her eyes and she buries her head in her hands. It’s official, she’s ugly; there’s no way to fix her. No matter how hard she tries or what outfit she puts on, there will be nothing nice to look at in the mirror.
            She runs from the room and disappears into her parents’ room. They have a full length mirror that she has never used before. Taking a shaky breath, she steps in front of it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she waits for the insults to come.
            But they never do. The mirror is silent. And so are her sobs. She wipes away the tears and gapes at the girl standing in front of her. Sure she might have one too many zits, but that doesn’t matter. Her hair could use a little work, but it isn’t her top priority. The unibrow seems to have magically disappeared.
            The reflection in this mirror is nothing like the one in the other. In this one, she is gorgeous. She doesn’t remember looking this nice on Easter a few years ago. But she looks beautiful here, now. And she wants to stay that way.
            Gathering up the courage, she stomps back into her room to face her mirror.
 
So sorry you won’t define me/Sorry you don’t own me
 
            You’re back. Still in that hideous outfit, huh? I especially like the way it hugs your huge hips.
            For a second, she falters. The mirror almost grabs another victory. But she gathers herself and glares at it.
            “For all these years you’ve been by my side, not once have you told me the truth.”
            Of course I have. You are far from perfect. How much more truth do you want?
 
Who are you to tell me/That I’m less than what I should be? Who are you? Who are you?
 
            “Of course I’m far from perfect. Who on the planet is perfect?”
            Not you.
            “No one,” she snaps. “That’s who. You’ve had me chasing a dream that was never reachable. I was chasing perfection; the perfect outfit, the perfect hair, the perfet body. But this is me and I won’t have you tear me down ever again.”
 
I don’t need to listen/To the list of things I should do/I won’t try, I won’t try.
 
            She reaches up and grabs the mirror from each side.
            Hey, what are you doing? No, wait! I—I can be a good mirror! You’re beautiful in that dress. It flows nicely at the bottom so your scrawny legs are hidden. No! That’s not what I meant. No, I—hey, what are you doing? Seven years of bad luck, remember that! Seven years, seven years, seven years—”
            She had smashes the mirror onto the floor, breaking it into about a million pieces. She gets her victory; she will be controlled no more.
 
Mirror I am seeing a new reflection/I’m looking into the eyes/of He who made me/And to Him I have beauty beyond compare/I know He defines me
 
            From then on, the only mirror she uses is the one in her parents’ room. It never talks to her; ever. But occasionally she gets a warm feeling in her heart when she touches it, like the mirror is trying to comfort her.
            Confidence doesn’t come easy to her and she struggles to find herself after being beaten down by the old mirror. The only thing that comforts her is the site of the new mirror. Every time she looks into it, she wishes that it would speak up. But it never does.
            She waits months to hear it speak. And one day does speak.
            I have made you in my image. And I make no mistakes. Do not think less of yourself. Represent me well and do not forget me. I am there; always.
            And the mirror never speaks to her again.