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Uncomfortable creaking of wooden floor panels filled the air, letting the dark night know how worn out they became with time. Taking careful steps, the woman marched forward, cursing how loud everything became after dark. No cars driving past the building, no people chattering under the living room windows, no life on the streets beside the very few people heading home after painful hours of getting drunk at the local shitty pubs.
The woman sighed breathlessly and pushed open the slightly ajar door before her, stepping inside the pitch-black room. She then closed the door with a soft ‘click’ and only then did she turn the light on, locking herself in a void of blinding and cold shine. She faced the sink, above which was hung the dirty mirror, the thing she was looking for.
A quiet snore snuck itself into the bathroom through the gap under the door and for a split second, the woman looked behind her, staring at the door as if it was the one making noise, and not the man sleeping on the couch in the living room. She grimaced, thinking of all the times she said she didn’t mind sleeping in the same bed as him, how having just one bedroom shouldn’t be a problem, how she knew nothing would ever happen between the two of them. He insisted he’d sleep on the couch, that he didn’t mind, that he wouldn’t want to make her uncomfortable.
She thought of the way he scratched the back of his neck and averted her gaze when he suggested she’d be the one uncomfortable with sharing a bed. God, he had no idea how to make his lies believable.
Another snore broke through the thin layer of wood, separating her from the swallowing darkness, and she finally turned back to face the mirror.
She made eye contact with the figure that stood in the mirror, its unforgiving gaze piercing right through her. Letting out a shaky breath, she stepped closer to the sink, putting her hands on the cold ceramic fixture to support herself. She couldn’t help but escape the gaze of the figure staring at her, instead dropping her head down and looking down the rusted drain. The buzzing of the overhead light rang in her ears, like an annoying fly that wouldn’t leave her alone and she furrowed her eyebrows as she waved one hand around, as if it’d help with scaring the buzzing away, not realising how ridiculously futile it was.
This would always happen. For a few days, she’d be fine, sometimes even lasting up to a few weeks. A few weeks where she felt good with herself, confident in who she was, somewhat content with how her life was starting to look; she was making their apartment feel more homey, getting excited about new decorations or plants or other knick-knacks she found cute, she even landed an interview at a new place. Then, one day, out of nowhere, all her happiness would slip away from her grasp and make her feel like her entire world is once again falling apart, the crushing weight keeping her stuck in one place, not letting her move on from any of the shit she had to go through to get here. She was trapped in an endless cycle of emotional highs followed by an overwhelming fear she couldn’t even begin to explain.
Everything suddenly began feeling constricting–from her clothes to her makeup, to the four walls she desperately wanted to call ‘home’ but that would ultimately remain nothing more than ‘a place’, no matter how hard she tried making it cosy with worthless decorations. It was like a cage, with a pink heart-patterned blanket draped over it, with her inside, pathetically gnawing on her leg like a neglected dog, yearning to find a point in living, thirsting after feeling loved, never feeling physical hunger but always hungry for more, even though she couldn’t articulate what more was.
With everything going on in her head, she didn't even notice her vision became blurred until a lost tear droplet landed on her hand, running down her knuckles whitened with tension. It was then, too, when she realised she's been biting down on her thumb, a metallic taste sticking to her tongue like a piercing needle.
“You're Maria,” the figure in the mirror whispered, its voice distant and echoing.
She looked up, confused. The figure felt so alien, she struggled to recognise who it was supposed to be, if it was anyone at all. Tired eyes, aged face, downturned lips. Dark brown roots shooting out of its scalp, frantically fighting against all the layers of bleach and pink dye the woman used as a way of trying to differentiate herself from the person who took up all of his affection, all of his memories and all of his grief.
A shaky and desperate breath escaped her parted lips, a red stain fitting perfectly in the cracked skin, caused by notorious stress-induced biting. She hated how the figure looked–she could see every pore in its face, every wrinkle and every split end in its unhealthy hair, the details of its being were too grotesque for her to look at without feeling sick. She hated its sight, yet now, she couldn't even look away, not anymore. After all, it is what she ventured to the bathroom for, the reason why she woke up in cold sweat, her shirt uncomfortably wet against her back. She wished she knew why she hated the figure so much, while simultaneously wanting to look at it face-to-face. It’s like the figure wanted to be seen, and the woman knew that deep down, which is why she’d constantly go to see it, completely disregarding the fact she couldn’t stand staring into those pale eyes, utterly devoid of any signs of life.
“You’re Maria,” the figure repeated itself, louder this time, its voice clearer in the woman’s head.
Shuffling backwards, the woman finally let go of the cold sink, her injured hand flying to her red lips to trap in any noises fighting to get out. Tears were trickling down the woman’s face, the immense sadness she felt overwhelmed her, wrapping itself around the very core of her body, paralysing her as if she was trapped in a spiderweb, waiting to be devoured by some greater force, viciously killed without a second thought. Her back bounced off the rough wooden door and the second she found something to lean on, her legs gave out and she lifelessly slid down onto the tiled floor.
The figure no longer stared down at her with disgust and pity in its eyes. It couldn’t see her cowering on the floor, trying to keep her sobs from spilling out. Every part of her body ached, discomfort running through her veins, fear crawling through her muscles, hatred chipping at her bones. She wished she could rip her skin off and instead of bloody gore, there’d be another version of her underneath, as if she was simply taking off a poorly made costume. She’d love to claim her current self was a façade, a bad joke.
But it wasn’t. It was all her. It was just Maria.