Short #1

 The glass isn’t clean. 

Water droplets cling to its surface, sliding next to the marks left by ones that had dried a while back. The face that is reflected back on the mirror doesn’t look real. Its not broken, like one might expect. 

After tragedies and hard times, people write about looking into a mirror and finding a shadow staring back. They write about a shell of a person, who’s cracked so many times that all the life has seeped out of the jagged holes. 

But that’s not what I see. All I see is a person who’s lost and desperate, searching for a meaning, a tether. I know the face in the mirror belongs to me, but the dissonance I feel is stark. It looks off, and the ‘how’ is on the tip of my tongue but it clings there and refuses to let me explain. 

I admire my smile, and the dry hatred in me grows. I tell myself that my eyes are beautiful, and I believe it, and the dry hatred grows bigger still. I try something different. 

My teeth are disgusting, I think, and yet, the hatred is bigger than before. 

I notice the dark circles under my eyes, the ones I’d been trying to ignore. I like the way they look, not healthy, but they make me look bored. Unconcerned. Empty.