The Concept of Perfection

Chapter Nineteen- Perfect Mirror

Chapter Nineteen- Perfect Mirror

            There was one period back then, after my brother died, when I had a hard time looking into mirrors. It seemed unlikely, back then, for me to ever get over that complex or whatever. There was, if you asked me, a time when I thought I could just avoid looking at mirrors. Or more like, there was a time when I thought that I would always want to avoid mirrors.

            I guess, life had a way of working out when you least expect it to. Some things just happen without you noticing. It might have happened bit by bit, in very little intervals, causing little change every time, yet enough to make a big impact in the long run. But it could also happen in one snap.

            Staring at myself in the mirror, there was no nausea that followed. No hurt. Or at least not much, anyway. I was just staring at myself like that. My dark brown hair seemed to have grown longer than I’d ever had it. My skin was getting slightly tanner than before. My green eyes, my unchanging green eyes, were still the same. So much like Adrian’s. My green eyes, unchanged yet different.

            Unchanged, yet different. Was that even possible?

            My reflection stared back at me. It was, in retrospect, funny how a mirror could show you. Your physical appearance, at least, but never really show all of you. How your reflection looks so much like you, only empty. Without feelings. It was just a reflection, in the end.

            Was there a perfect mirror in this world? A perfect mirror that could show me what I’ve been looking for for so long?

            A mirror that could show me what I wanted to see?

            A mirror that could show me myself?

            Wednesday night. Aunt Isby had some things going on at work, and she left a message, saying she was working overtime. I was alone in the house, just loitering around after typing up my paper for Literature. It was about before dinnertime when I received the call.

            It seemed so sad—cruel, actually, to be exact—that just when I thought my life was finally on its way to the right track, when I finally got ahold of my life, when I finally worked out some kind of peace for myself, was the time when everything would just go back and spun out of control again. Out of my grip.

            It was cruel.

            It was really cruel.

            So many days, weeks even, that I spent, trying to create that peace for myself—and one phone call to ruin it… seemed particularly spiteful.

            “Hey, kiddo,” my father had said over the static of interstate phone calls.

            I could hear the exhaustion from his voice. Clearly, he was tired.

            “Hey, Dad,” I said, a little awkwardly. Something was up, and I had a hunch that I was just about to find out.

            “Uhhh, hey. I’m heading out for some dinner, you know,” he said. “It makes me think of the days.”

            I looked down. “The days,” I repeated.

            “You know, with you and Adrian,” he replied.

            There was a pause, when I was expected to say something. I heard him draw a quick breath, that one he takes when he was about to say something else, so I quickly chimed in, not allowing him to steal my chance to actually make my own point. “Mom was there too,” I said. “On all those times. Those… days.”