Category : Stories

Sub Category : Drama

My dark blonde hair is squashed in the collar of my gray wool sweater, which makes me look like I have short hair that only goes to the end of my neck. I will dye it black as soon as it is possible. I am still too ugly. But I used to think I was uglier. There is nothing that dares to stand between perfection and ugliness. On the walls of this room I have sculptures and photos of who I want to be. In the meantime it has become an obsession. I want to be him. I want to have a copied face. He stands for individuality, so he would hate this part of me. Maybe he left me because he loathes himself, and is racking his brain as to how something once so perfect to him as me would want to be as dirty and damaged as him?
Why didn't he ask me?
I could have explained it to him.
Now I know he never believed or trusted me, probably he was even afraid of me. 
It seems that I always want more after I get. I devour, but in doing so I starve. Makeup satisfies me for a while, but the only thing that matters is eternity. 

Mother should never have told me that I look like him, because my old perception of my face has become a lie. A wish came true, a wish cursed by perfectionism. It started with my hair, when I had it cut short at the hairdresser. I had it done the way a friend of mine, John William Lowery wore his hair. Then for the first time the words were said that I would look like Brian. I strutted around my town haughtily and uninhibitedly singing metal. People should see their star. I took these honest words like my favorite food. Meanwhile my obsession and conviction became overweight. People from the gates of the Internet, mostly friends and even few classmates from school confirmed the words of the sentence my mother spoke. Image comparisons became evidence and serve as a second balancing. The greatest of my servants is the belief and the desired subliminals. 
When the day came that Brian had enough self-confidence attached to him to show me childhood photos of himself, I now knew that I too had great facial similarities to him back then, many years ago. 
Jokingly, I told him, "I think you're hiding something from me, Dad." 
Jokingly he replied back, "now you've figured it out, I really am your dad." 
Then we both laughed. 
What made the tables turn so much? Maybe he had lied to me, and laughed artificially. 
I'm wearing the face of a liar. I want the face of a falsified smiler. The proof that I don't love myself at all, but have only pity and tolerance for myself. A stupid friend I must have been to myself. I misunderstood my own feelings, and thus became a liar. But I have seen through the play. A possibility for improvement that will not strike anyway. 
Some days I still have unnecessary doubts, just because I look a little tired, or have distorted photos of myself. Addicted as I am, I then spend my time awake trying to find a suitable piece of the puzzle, with which I sooner or later succeed. Sometimes it took hours. The doubts diminish and weaken. I have not had them for a long time now. May they be starved to death in their hiddenness. Hope their skeletons are sunk deep in the grainy, light sand of a desert. I pray they will never scratch the belly of the surface again. The maw of my security will not dare to vomit them. 
I am the opposite of narcissus after all, because I want to change what I am. I fall in love with change. I am still in love with Brian. Many minutes pass before my reflection, grimacing. 
Or am I narcissus himself? Am I growing up only to become a nobody? Am I illusionary? Do I disguise myself as an imagination to cover the emptiness inside me? Who am I? What am I? 
I am a teenage girl. I have breasts and a slit between my legs. I am satisfied with that. And my personality is my own, just like my whole name. I am not narcissistic or transsexual. 

Sometimes I scratch my reflection, but only hit the glass of the mirror, which is like the frozen water of a lake. The difference is the temperature. What would I find inside the mirror? The scratch marks are empty. Abandoned. Untouched. I hunger for touches, looks and words. My feeling of being loved has wavered to the point of aridity. I let out my amorous behavior patterns on my reflection, but at the end of the day, I always go to bed sad. The kisses and caresses are only one-sided. The words, only echoes of my throat. I wish it were possible that the girl on the other side would make the first move. Just for a change. I never smile at her. She, me, wouldn't look like Brian with that smirk. I'd just be a childish parody of his past. I'd be cute, like candy, but not pretty, like a grown swan. 
I'm beautiful when I scare you and confuse you. Then I am one of the beautiful people, and take the first step into the golden age of grotesque.

I hate what I have become, to escape what I hated being. I would so like to lean my heavy head on the shoulder of the girl in the mirror and cry into her neck. Apologize for insulting, threatening and physically assaulting her a few times. I got scared of her when she imitated my threatening behavior. I shouldn't forget that she is me. How could I do such a thing? We are beautiful and free!
But then the glass breaks and shatters in my face. The girl is not waiting for me there in the empty hollow. She has disappeared. I feel warmth on my skin. Gently, my fingertips explore my face, only to be disappointed. The warmth is not a saving, caring hand. It is my blood flowing. And the sharpness on my lips is not teeth, or a sucking mouth kissing me penetratingly. It is shards. Dizzy and humiliated, I blink downward at the edged spiral of destruction. I fall into an endless, infinite carousel of my imperfections.