Mirrors

She's always liked mirrors.

Anything with a reflective surface, really. Something she could see herself with. Like the windows in the classroom, so she could turn her head and check if her name tag was slanted during lessons. Or the puddles of rainwater on the damp track, which she would glance at occsionally while running to see if her hair was in a mess. Sometimes, she would even discreetly use the grainy reverse camera on her phone in the bus, in case a pimple had popped up in school.

To her, they were a great friend. One that saved her from potentially embarrassing incidents. One that would point out tiny flaws that needed a bit of correcting. One that showed her best features, like the way her big hazel eyes always sparkled with enthusiasm.

Slowly, the mirror became a servant. A tool to help her see where the eyeliner was going. To make sure there was no lip gloss on her cheeks. A weak nod of confirmation, that she looked like the models in magazines. So close to perfection.

But never perfect.

That's what her mind would repeat to her, over and over again. Just look at the mirror, it would say.

And so the mirror became a weapon of destruction she detested so much. It seemingly taunted her dry and frizzy locks, the excess fat around her waist, the dry flakes of skin on her lips. It was hard to avert her eyes from those tempting reflective surfaces. Even when she smashed her own mirror, not caring about the seven years of bad luck it would bring about, she was still able to see distorted bits of herself through the sharp-edged fragments.

It led her to sleepless nights, scouring the internet for beauty how-tos. It led to the pocket money she saved from skipping lunch, money she would use when sneaking to the shops to buy cheap drugstore mascara. It led to her becoming a follower of society, a follower of the trends, whatever was popular.

She became a mirror.