Wide brown eyes and subtly crooked teeth looked back at me in desperation. She was made of outstretching legs that ran for miles and ribs you could count even under their blanket of olive skin. She looked like an enormous soul shoved in to a tiny body. And a tiny body shoved into a community of tiny minds. She was like a caged bird, and her suffering screamed from every visible outlet it could grab. She was flexible in the way she lacked vertebrae. She contorted and twisted for those she loved, but never seemed to appease them. The call for help so clearly written on her face was ignored by those around her, how could they not see? Even I with my silver, sheer corners could see. Sometimes she’s bends over me so close her breath fogs my frame, as if she’s drowning in the reflection I so loyally present.

Some days she walks by me without a glance, as if I’m not needed. Other days she contemplates herself for hours, as if she’ll pull something out that’s not there. Her eyes have grown into an empty abyss I cannot explain. It is as if her soul slips away from her from every glance, and her heart is hungered and starved from this deprivation.

It wasn’t until one crisp autumn day that I began to fear for her. She stood in front of me shaking, without a single glance. Pools of salty tears left burning streaks down her cheeks, and her bony fingers reached for the counter drawer. From the makeup drawer she pulled a razor and began slicing. It was the most confusing, Helpless thing I’ve witnessed. While each cut was deep and firm, hesitation began each one. As if her body was trying to save itself from the monster it must hold.

She barely glanced at me after that day. Her skin began to pale, her bones began to protrude even more, and her eyes lost their sparkle. The scratches on her arms began to increase in number, and I began feeling something that mirrors do not feel. I felt sorry. Sorry for ever showing her the things she hates about herself. Sorry I had to reflect the bloody lines that tattoo her wrists.

But I have a purpose; to show what’s there. And she felt she had a purpose too, but not the kind one should have.
…

The rope was thick and wiry, strong and stale. Its musty yellow twine twisted gently, back and forth, creaking with each soft turn. Her soul had dissipated faster that the relationships she had struggled to hold, and for the first time, I wanted to escape the reflection in front of me too.