Mirrored

Mirrored

Samuel Bird

Setting it against the wall, he grabbed the brown paper that covered its corner and pulled down diagonally. He realized it was facing with its back toward him, so he picked it and turned it around. Tearing the last of the paper off, he picked it from the messy and slid it against the wall, up and down, until he felt the wire on the back catch on the nail. Then, from side to side, he moved it until it was balanced enough to be centered. Running his errands that morning had left his already unkempt appearance messier, as he had assumed. Now, at least he had something to shine back his image to allow him to shave with greater accuracy. His eyes focused on it to see the glass backed by silver. Somehow, it had managed to stay rather clean. He looked at the fine, curling and curving woodwork that made up the frame as he wished he was paying attention to the story of antiquity he was told by the man that had some of it to him. He was proud to own this mirror and what it spoke of him. His efforts to make a life and keep it orderly were further demonstrated by this reflective apparatus. He thought about his life and the plot it seemed to have with these moments as its end. The striving against bitter facts to make a life worth living were finalized in the catharsis of this simple achievement. His eyes focused away from the mirror itself and to the contents in it. He saw himself in a moment that stood so independent from what he thought, that it was jarring. With some humility from effort and some from honesty, he was aware that he had never been the most handsome of men, but something was different. The whiskers on his chin looked full and framing to his face shape. His cheekbones and jawbone had a sharpness that demonstrated his vitality. His nose stood shapely and forward like a phalanx in battle. His eyes, vibrant in their brown color that he had before found unremarkable. Was it perhaps that he had been so handsome all along and only now had a chance to see it? He stood up straighter to admire himself. His shoulders seemed wide. The shirt he wore seemed to tenderly drape over a muscular shape. He curled his arms up toward his face and clenched his fist to find the bulging of his biceps. He turned from side to side, smiling, grimacing, and glaring. With every angle he had a beauty about him that spoke to something. Perhaps it was all in his eye, but then he called to his mind the face’s he saw throughout his day and recalled the clear markers to him that he was much better looking. He soaked in the moment, trying to see himself better. He stood there for a time that seemed to not be enough for what he was trying to get out of it. Before he could tell, the sun was down and a new day must be started soon. He pulled his covers up over his face that he now saw as beautiful. 

As soon as he woke up, he rushed to the mirror with the excuse of shaving. He went to see it, and wondered if he had been dramatic in his estimation the night before. He certainly could tell he was handsome, but its remarkable nature became less clear. He dragged his razor across his face to bring into further definition of his jawline. There it was in all its marvel. He once again felt handsome. Well, other than a single spot he missed. That spot seemed to emanate ugliness from him, ruining this perfect image he wanted to see. With a small nick from the blade, he shaved it and began to see the sheer majesty of his own face. Surely, all would treat him like he felt he had deserved all along. The girls that rejected him in the town, he no longer needed to find ways to mourn their rejection. They were simply wrong. Only now would they have a chance to see it with his clean face. Additionally, he vowed to act like it. Perhaps his unnecessary abasing of himself didn’t allow others to stand in the shadow of his shine. And who was he? He was no longer fit, in his mind, for menial work as he clearly had the more refined face of the most successful of socialites. The humble story of slowly raising himself from poverty had no place when he considered it an affront to his majestic face that he ever was poor. He had certainly found something of himself today, his true self. The meeker views seemed to be nothing more than a bartering for permission to exist in this world. Now, he saw himself as a gift to be seen. However, he knew it would take more than one day for others to see him this way. He then left for work to reward the world with his view. 

Returning home, he rushed to the mirror to see his face. It had once again lost its luster. The eyes seemed closer to the color of mud, the cheeks sunken, and the nose to one side. Worse altogether, that damned facial hair was back. He jerked his razor off the counter and splashed it in water as quickly as he could before he began to aggressively drag it down across his face. When he had rid himself of that which hid his beauty, he tried to bask in it, but it had grown dim to him. This face seemed to insult him with its average qualities. Being so unremarkable seemed to be an offense toward the possibilities that beauty holds. What about him? This new self-definition he saw from this new found beauty was now gone to him. Perhaps his eyes lied to him, or he had just become used to it. Could the mind of man grow tired toward the stars or weary of the moon? Had this thing he had valued become standard to him, such that he found no comeliness in it? That reflective surface, perhaps now it betrayed him. It was lying to him now to see that he was less than that surreal moment just yesterday alluded to. Or worse, perhaps it lied the day before, and this new self that he had walked around acting like all day, was a lie. He tried to rise to rationalism and from despair. Perhaps it was rather the darkening of the night and the sun was beginning to set again. 

With his waking thought and as his mind began to filter his experience, he thought of it first. His image had become ambrosia and yet vinegar laced with arsenic. This way to see himself as no more just a tale, but as an object in the world gave him closure in a world that hated its subjects. To look upon himself was the sip of the addict, but he wondered if that pattern to continue would come up now. He both couldn’t help himself and yet could barely bring himself to rise from the bed and prepare himself to see what housed him. He came around the corner in his house where it was hung above a desk. A shape came into view that seemed to neither have symmetry, nor statute. As he came closer, his general features seemed frail, lifeless, and repulsive. As his eyes met themselves in the reflection, he hated them. He hated his face. He was disgraced to greet the world with this crooked smile, that curled nose, and those nasty edges and angles. How could anyone walk by and not want to kill him to save the world some ugliness? Every bit of the vessel he dwelt in made him want to refuse it, but even that alleged window to within seemed so disgusting. Perception could wake up the values of the soul, giving way to beauty, but what was this? Was this ugliness because of the lack of beauty, or the specific traits that his mind couldn’t lie to himself to value? The thought of his favorite mountain range came into view. Something about it engaged within him such that he had an affinity, a drive, and a pulling upon the heart from its viewership. Now, the thing that he had found himself reduced to didn’t seem to be all that much. It all made sense now. All the vitriol, abandonment, and refusal he had felt, it was not for no reason. They simply saw him and didn’t desire his hideousness. More than able to see their point, he wished he had the same chance to run from himself. However, he was left trapped as the same person he had always been. Why had his subjectivity never awoken within another body on a different morning. Why couldn’t he find himself handsome like his taunters, beautiful like a bird in flight, or at least neutral as a betal. Out of all the disgusting things to be, he was himself and he saw no escape from such. What had changed? From first viewership until now, something had changed in him. Perhaps like he only saw a bird in a tree when it moved, his mind had become accustomed to its view. However, if this was true and the mind only senses relative facts, his beauty would have slipped into blandness. How is it that it had become so horridly vile to him now? 

He thought back to the day prior. It was the whiskers, those damned beard hairs. Yes, if he could rid himself of them, perhaps he would like what he sees, or at least not wish it death. He yanked his razor up from the desk, forgetting water and soap, and began to violently bring it down his cheeks, upper lip, and chin. He rubbed it back and forth violently as at best it burned and at worst it sliced at his skin. That was of little consequence to him. There was no way he could get uglier and a face such as that deserved it. He sliced and sliced, moving the strokes lower as he lifted up his head until he was slicing at his neck. In a moment made more vibrant to his mind by the part of it that wished to live, the blade seemed to slow as it found its way into his jugular, slicing the vein. He threw the blade to the side as if it had been the offender and clutched at his throat. He hated he had felt had let to a carelessness, but now he was seeing that there would be no one to find himself, or anything else for that matter, beautiful for him if he died. His body engaged in the ancient program it used in the plains his ancestors roamed. Time slowed, the pain was dulled, and he was sat in his mind as an audience. The blood erupted from his neck as his body fought to keep it in, but the mind had a chance to do otherwise. It seemed as if something asked him if he wished to see a story. He neither knew what it was, nor knew how he communicated he would, but he did. 

His body had collapsed on the floor, drowning in that which gave it life. He was cozy within his mind, and ready to perceive. In a series of moments passed before him in sequence: himself as a young boy on his father’s farm, his first day at school, and a day of pride from his career. Moments smaller than these fluttered by, but these larger portions of his life stood as marker posts in time. That moment in his career, an advancement from his leader when he saw something in him. What did he see? Was he wrong for that? At the school again, another young face looked upon his. Later, his best friend, but in this moment what did that young boy feel when he looked at him? Toddling through the field through the thick grass until he came to a creek with a stilled portion. Leaning over and trying not to fall in, he saw a face. Did he think he was beautiful then? He tried to bring the moment into as clear a view as he could. Did he find himself something worth seeing when he first realized it was him in the reflection? Memory seemed to fade and he didn’t want to put words in its mouth. Rather, he sought to neither evaluate as see what the memory did show if not answers via emotion. Well, he saw eyes. He saw eyes that say themselves in the water. Those eyes sensed both the water and themselves. That whole field in fact, he could only see because of them. And the sounds, because of his ears. The scents, because of his nose. Outside of how he saw himself, only from himself could he see anything. He wished to repent, to find a god to forgive him of this wrong. It was not what his self seemed to be, but what it afforded him. Every chance to see something beautiful was through this being he was fooled to devalue. He thought of the mirror and its history. A curse or a haunt didn’t matter to him. Aestheticism became more to him than the one access between beauty and ugliness, but an additional frontier was added where the depth of that beauty was valued. The view he saw may have been ugly, but it seemed to be a baser beauty. This story, this sequence of being, the acuity of suffering being felt and even being itself became the beauty he saw in his last moments. Still, as his body became cold, it reminded him he was still attached to it. He wanted to see one last time. He opened his eyes to see the sharp redness of his blood pooled around him. Finding the strength, he grit his teeth, closed his eyes, and stood up. His hands grasped the corners of the table as his blood crashed down below him. One last chance to see. With open eyes he found the mirror's curse was not lifted, but even something so ugly to be seen so deeply, somehow managed to be the perfect last beautiful sight.