THE JOSHUA WEINZWEIG REVIEW OF WRITING 2020-2021
MIRROR ____________________________________________________________ by Isabella Tan, Grade 11 My finger follows along the gap between my ribs. “One, two, three…” My finger stops. The end of my rib cage disappears under my skin. My smile is overtaken by fear: I ate too much at lunch. I rush to the washroom, kneel down by the toilet, and stuff my hand into my throat like I’ve done hundreds of times before. Nothing comes out. My hand digs deeper. I can taste blood in my throat—I have to cut my nails, I think. The vomit comes like a storm. After a storm, things become brighter and lighter. I look down in the water, but only see some minced apple. I caress my flat stomach. I feel perfect. It doesn’t feel good when the gastric acid sticks to my throat. I stand up, coughing severely. As I turn around, I see her standing still, right in front of me. The washroom is narrow and damp. A small dome light fills the whole room. It casts a shadow under her sunken eye sockets. She gazes upon me, so I stare back. She seems familiar. But if I’ve ever met such a walking skeleton before, I would recognize her. She is as thin as a lath, a bag of bones. Her rib cage protrudes from under her skin. She is pale, as if she hasn’t been exposed to the sun for a long time. If she dares walk outside, she might be arrested by mistake—she looks like a perennial drug addict, or worse. She leans forward, staring at me. She gives me an exhausted smile, showing teeth that have turned yellow due to gastric acid corrosion. She is gasping badly, as if escaping from a monster. Her eyes are red, her tears hanging from her lashes. “You did a great job, kid.” Her eyes trace mine. Closer and closer, her hand reaches out to my face. Then, my fingertip touches the mirror. My pupil shakes. Before I realize what’s going on, I punched the mirror. It shatters. Every piece of glass reflects. One piece of me roars, one piece of me shakes, one piece of me laughs. “Stop, stop!” I cry. I break a piece of mirror apart, but the laughing doesn’t stop. I look down at the two pieces of glass in my hand. The sharp edge of the glass cuts through my finger. On one piece of mirror, the blood drops on my unwinking eye, trickling down my cheek. On the larger piece, I see myself counting my ribs. “One, two, three…”
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
63
