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Chase stared at herself. Like she had been for several hours.
Well, maybe not Chase. She didn’t know what she’d prefer to be called–but the damn Paw Patrol character definitely didn’t feel right.
It was as if the mirror was taunting her, almost as if it were some enigmatic entity, rather than an inanimate object. She didn’t know it was possible to feel so much resentment toward a piece of glass lazily slung across the wall.
There were definitely people that agreed with her–that mirrors were public enemy number one–they only existed to pull all and any chance of revolution down. The more time influencers spend staring at themselves, fixing their hair isn’t going to allow the world to progress any further.
Those are the type of things your mind resorts to pondering when you do nothing but stare at yourself depressingly for half an hour.
She couldn’t believe herself. She was everything she didn’t want to be. It was as if every bit of herself she despised was being pointed out with a laser pointer. Of course, if that were really happening, she’d practically be glowing.
The short hair. The fat, old but somehow-still-ugly scar that ran across her face. Her flat chest. Her clothes. Everything. Fucking disgusting.
Oh, what a peaceful world it would be–if she could modify herself as if she were made of clay. She wanted so much to be the subject of a mobile character customization app. Then she intrusively began thinking of ripping her intestines out just to distort her skin and cut herself off before she entered a rabbit hole.
That wasn’t the only thing. She’d seen the photos–the old ones–of her, Aaron and Bear practically raiding the camera with cake-eating grins as if they had no care in the world. As if they hadn’t tortured another literal human being into the worst state someone of their age could enter.
Everytime she stared at a mirror, it was as if it was staring back at her, especially when her mom forced her into a Walmart aisle adorned with the things, and she was surrounded by images of herself she never wanted to look at again. It was as if the things cornered her and their imaginary voices rang through her head like church bells that chimed in your ears a bit too sharp, or loud drums that made you feel like your heart was shaking.
Even now, she was wondering why she’d do this to herself–just staring into her own soul as if she’d never seen anything more disgusting. To be fair, she probably hasn’t.
She finally exhaled and flung the bathroom door open. No point in dwelling in a bottomless pit of sorrow if there’s nothing you can do to crawl out of it.