Mirrors Are My Deepest Enemy

Bombs go off inside of me.

My face burns red hot, and not because of the sparkling sun blaring from the towering window that hangs above the entrance. As the double doors flood with men and women, dressed in dashing suits and lavishing dresses assorted in trending colors my mother declares “summer-faux” (at least that’s what she put on the invitation cards), the New Hampshire wind caresses the house, causing a light breeze to slip into the corridor and sting my cheeks. 

“Don’t let any air in,” I tell myself. No matter how welcoming it feels rubbing against my chapped lips, I never allow a shred of comfort to distract me, especially when I know the breeze will stab into my gums. “I can’t.”

Hands wave once guests (who I’ve never seen before) retrieve a glance at me. I lift my hand to wave back, but immediately slam it down, struck by what I was about to do. And instead, I smile bleakly.

“That was close. Too close” 

They turn away, unconscious to the crippling fear strapping me down like a weight. 

I stand there, frozen. How can I slip out without anyone noticing? 

“It’s impossible,” a voice utters.

 I dart my head, searching along the foyer, the words still fresh. I glance up the spiral staircase where people carelessly lean against the railing, at the doors where people enter, and the main hallway where laughs ring against the ceiling. 

I’ve been hearing that same voice.

The voice that sends a chill down my spine with just a sound. 

The voice that bangs against my skull. I heard it two days ago before I . . . well . . . you know. And then again last Saturday after Grandpa Hawthorne treated me to brunch- the voice especially strong in the limo. I want to run away from it and never look back, but how can I when I don’t even know where it’s coming from. 

“It’s impossible,” the voice says once more.

But this time, I’m determined to find it.

 I grip the seams of my dress and rush towards the golden banister, my heels clapping against the tiles. I can feel it swarming; I just can’t pin-pocket where it is. I move past many gentlemen and mistresses along the spiral, but all I focus on is the jingling echo punching at me.

I leap onto the top step, the party flickering beneath me. 

It’s close, like I could reach out and grasp the voice in my palms. 

Faint whispers of the voice fill my ears, and I realize it lays all around me, closing in from every corner, every direction. 

I glance up and down the second-floor hallways, each seeming indefinite. I let out a sigh, my breath hot, but mind icey, and release my grasp on the seems of my dress.

Peering over the railing, a wave of something I easily recognize washes over me. It starts off in my head, like a bullet in my temple, then down my chest, and finally plummets to my stomach as though an earthquake is occurring in my own body.

“Oh no. It’s happening again. No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Not now! Not here!”

Sweat drips from my forehead, and I’d allow it to fall if I weren’t scared of my mother punishing me for spoiled makeup. 

“One must make sacrifices for beauty,” she always says, followed by a snarky remark saying my waist could be thinner. She tells me it’s her love language, but I don’t know. 

Wrapping my arms around my stomach- air-tight- all I want is to sneak off to my room. But my mother is expecting me downstairs. She needs me to be “a regal host.”

I don’t want to disappoint her. 

I can’t be yelled at again. 

Because if I am today, I don’t know if it’ll be the one that finally pushes me over the edge.

“Okay, just a few minutes. Only until my stomach calms down.”

Before I take my first step, the bedroom door slams open where my mother and a few of what she calls “madams” emerge from the doors. Their perfect white teeth light up the room, but darken my insides. My mother bears her prized jewels while the madams admire them with eyes of deepest lust. 

I crouch behind a pillar, listening heavily. 

“Vivienne, where did you acquire such jewels?” one asks, hyptnotized.

“This was my grandmother Charlotte’s. A family heirloom, you see,” my mother responds, clearly enjoying the attention. 

“Will you be passing it onto Ivy?” another asks. 

“Of course I’ll give it to my daughter,” a hint of deceit roaming, “. . . when she’s ready,” she adds. 

It’s all an act. My mother would never give me her jewels. I let out a scoff, and instantly clap my hand over my mouth, then leer back behind the pillar.

 “Please no, please no, please no.”

“Did you hear something-” One madam asks ominously.

“Hear what?” my mother cuts her off, hiding anything out of order.

“No, I think I heard something,” another says.

“I believe so as well,” one more joins in.

“You know, Vivienne, you ought to be worried. This is the Hawthorne carousal of course. The highest men and women of New England spend loads of money to attend. You don’t want anyone prying where they’re not supposed to,” she finishes, crippling silence now filling the air. 

After a few moments, my mother blurts out, “Of course, Jaqueline. I shall check it out immediately. But in the meantime,” she continues, clapping her hands together and plastering on a fake smile, “Mr. Hawthorne and I request your presence in the dining room. The opening feast should begin quite soon and you all don’t want to be tardy.” 

The women instantly embarque down the staircase, my mother following, muttering “yes” and “how could we have forgotten?”

After their steps die away, I step out from behind the pillar, relief cooling my chest. My stomach still churns. My mother would be quite disappointed if I skipped the party, but I can’t bare those women. 

I stride down the hall, ready to plop down on my bed when my mother appears behind me, fuming. “Now where do you think you are heading off to?” 

My skin tingles and my legs freeze. I turn around to see her dressed in a scarlet gown and eerings. 

“M-m-mother,” I stutter. “I was-”

“You were what?” she screams quietly, so not to draw any lingering ears. 

“I-I’m sorry.”

Tears well up in my eyes. 

“No!” she yells. “You are not sorry!” She advances on me. “You have to ruin everything, don’t you?”

I shake my head, struggling to push words out.

“I’ve been looking forward to this party all year and you will not ruin it!” she says.

“Please,” I beg, now in full on tears. “It’s happening again. I don’t know if I can hold it in this time.”

“No! And stop crying; you’ll ruin your mascara,” she snaps back coldly. “Do you know how many important people are here? I will not allow your,” she looks down at my torso, “stomach thing to destory it.” 

“But-”

“Shut up!” her words stab me. “Now come downstairs and glue a smile on your face. I don’t care if your stomach hurts; you will be in the dining hall, acting like a proper lady!” 

She grabs ahold of my wrists and drags me downstairs, my sobs growing louder. “Stop crying!” she whispers urgently. 

I yearn to stop, but the tears keep falling from my eyes.

“I don’t care if you want to do your shenanigans for attention, but tonight, you will act like a proper Hawthorne,” my mother orders.

She hauls my reluctant self into the dining hall. It looks just like it did last year. A large square dinner table the size of a tennis court in the center, stationed underneath our shining rose gold chandelier.

Once we step over the threshold, my mother releases me and drys my face with her sleeve.

“Behave!” she whispers.

I sit in the empty seat between my mother and one of the madams.

“You look so beautiful,” she says. “ You must’ve got it from your stunning parents.”

My mother’s face shines. “Oh, Barbara, you’re too kind.” 

Before I know it, my mother is tapping against her wine glass to make a toast. I focus on the first few words, buy they’re soon drowned out.

My stomach goes in circles once more.

“Oh no.”

“You can’t do it.” the mystery voice utters. I don’t bother looking around.

“-And so, thank you all for coming to the 79th annual Hawthorne carousel.” my mother preaches elegantly. 

“Cheers” ring around the rooms and wine glasses click together. 

Waiters dash around the table and my heart plummets once my meal is set before me. I don’t dare glance down at it, because I know it won’t end well. I paste my eyes to the wall and tell mysef not to falter.

Minutes surpass, and my mother eyes me skeptically then grabs my arm and carefully pulls me close. “Eat!” she commands.

“Not hungry, my dear?” Barbara interjects, her fork and knife angled upwards.

“Of course she’s hungry. Don’t you worry, Barbara,” my mother responds hastily, then whispers into my ear, “Stop acting silly or else I’ll slip,” she scans the room, “you-know-what into your cider.” She releases me, causing me to jerk in my side. 

I lower my head to the plate, intimidated like it’s a mountain I must forage. The turkey glows against the evening sun, the rice shimmers, and the apple cider bubbles. 

Everything looks so amazing. I look amazing. But I know it’s just a mask, concealing the castaways of my past that my mother has went great lengths to hide. 

I can’t do this! Because I know I won’t be able to stop. 

I warily pick up the fork, the edges teetering along with my shaky hand, and stab it into the turkey. 

The next second, I’m jamming the turkey into my mouth, the seasonings fueling my tastebuds. I can’t recall what I do next beside my eyes facing straight ahead at the blank wall which couldn’t be any more contrasting compared to the anger and sorrow hidden as fake joy through the pieces passing down my esophogus. Dipping my fork to and from the plate, I finally stop when I go to draw it back down only to hear the scratching of it against the glass.

There’s so much food around me, yet it still feels so little. The bites of rice were the happiest I felt all day, but now that they’ve subsided, it dawns on me I now have to return to the trenches of the real word. 

I need more food.

I signal a waitress over who pastes a forced smile on her face after noticing my mother’s presence.

 “Could you give me another plate please,” I ask. 

“Yes, ma’m,” she responds.

It feels like eternity before she brings the next dish, but once she does, the space around me grows dark.

In what seems like a second, that plate screams against my fork’s jabs.

“More!” 

I usher the waitress over again, ask for another meal, then she disappears into the kitchen once more. 

My mother leans over, and says, “Don’t eat too much, dear. We don’t want to get porky.” 

“Vivienne, let the girl eat,” Barbara interjects. “She’s a growing woman.”

My mother wouldn’t dare defy anyone in the room. 

After the third plate comes around, then the fourth, then the fifth, each one disappearing faster than the last, I forget about everything. I forget about being surrounded by the toxicity of the upper class, the constant urging from my mother to be perfect, and the obsession with how many inches can be marked with a ruler around my waist. Everything seems good, but I know the feeling is temporary. But it’ll still be here as long as I eat. So, I do. Plate after plate piles up around me.

“Stop acting like a pig,” my mother rushes quietly.

After she realizes I’m not listening, she grabs the plate and gives it to a waiter standing readily behind us. There’s no time for me to beg because the moment ends as fast as it came. 

“No,” I say, with a full mouth.

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth. It’s rude.” She adjusts the table cloth on her lap and grimaces at me, yet I’m the one feeling most disgusted.

I was too busy eating that I barely noticed my own gut wrenching. The feeling earlier has intensified, like someone’s gripped my intestines and squeezed them. 

I grab at my stomach, gas rising up. “May I be excused?” I ask.

“Of course, darling,” my mother says brightly, but darkness hides behind her. 

“Thank you.” 

I scoot my chair back and gallop across the room.

I can already feel the fluid rising up inside of me, but I push it down as far as I can. 

 “How could I have ate so much?” 

“I’m disgusting. I’m worthless.”

“There’s only one thing to do,” the voice returns, honing in.

“What?!” I ask, well-aware of what the answer is, but hoping the it’s different each time.

“You know,” the voice hisses maliciously.

I could stop myself right now if I wanted to. I could put an end to this. But I can’t end . . . THIS. I can’t end the expensive parties just to impress a bunch of people who I don’t even know. What does this party even celebrate? “The beginning of summer” my mother says, but all it seems like is a bunch of snakes gathering to celebrate the fact that they’re rich. I’m sick of this dress! I’m sick of these shoes! 

I’m sick . . I’m sick of the vomiting. 

But yet, I still do it because my mother’s approval is vital. I need to be the perfect little girl, even if it leads to extreme measures. 

I charge up the stairs, down the long hallway, and into the guest room where golden lights hang above a peach bed. I enter the bathroom and slam the door shut behind me. I catch myself in the mirror, tears spread across my face with mascara lines dripping down to my chin. 

I rip off my dress, then cover myself with the silk robes resting next to the shower.

I look down at my right hand, deja-vu overtaking me. I’ve been here before, and it feels oh too familiar. 

“Do it!” the voice hollers. “DO IT!”

And without thought, only sobs, two fingers with devilish power venture down my throat.

Remnants of turkey juice that must’ve slipped onto my fingers earlier taunt me. 

My free hand cliches the sink countertop while my eyes glow red and water, but not from sadness.

 I can’t stop. 

The pain only drives my fingers deeper until I can feel my stomach acid bubbling like a witch’s cauldron- crafted by my mother.

Each time I do it, it gets longer than the last. I tell myself I’ll never do it again, never eat like this again, but it’s only words covering a lie that always manages to seep through. 

The turkey sparks inside of me, vastly rising up my esophogus. A croak bellows from my lips, followed by obscene fluid pouring from my mouth. My fingers remain steady despite fluid now dripping down my arm.

I hate doing this. I hate making myself puke, but the thought of waking up one morning with extra skin is worse. At least that’s what mother says.

The final croak blares, and I rest my hand, positioning it to my side while my vomit drips onto the white carpet, staining an already contaminated life. What’s a few more spots?

I crawl to the corner of the room where I stay for the remainder of the evening. No thoughts cross my mind. 

Although, the only memory that surfaces in my brain is my mother’s words at the dinner table. “- or else I’ll slip you-know-what into your cider,” she said. 

Should I have done this? 

“Yes!” I answer instantly, because I know this is better than laxatives. Despite a full audience surrounding her, she could easily make the drop into my glass without an eye being drawn.

At least with heaving, I have a choice. But is it really one? I always wonder whether I would or would purge if I wasn’t terrified of my mother’s beration. I like to say I wouldn’t, but similar to this life, the sentence has so much more truth hidden beneath it.

The sky shimmers with pink while my insides rot with charcoal black. Soon, night falls and the moon shines on me through the window, like the world itself is judging me.

I hear prattling from the foyer. The party must be ending. I slip out from my corner and make it to the banister. As guests exit, my mother stands happily beside the door with my father, waving at people as they go. 

Soon, the hall is completely empty and the last person who hasn’t passed remains Barbara. 

“Thank you so much for coming, Barbara. It really is a pleasure to be in such a presence,” my mother says, embracing her.

“You know I wouldn’t miss it. You know, that Ivy of yours, she’s amazing,” she shakes her head in disbelief. “She really is the perfect daughter. I’m so proud of you both for giving her the perfect life.”

“Thank you,” my mother responds, nodding her head. “Our daughter means the world to us.”

And without another word, she shuts the door behind Barbara and I disappear into the shadows.

The party’s over, yet something has just started. 

I reel back, Barbara’s thoughts echoing in my head. 

The perfect daughter, I think as flashes of me vomiting while my mother holds my hair back with a tape measure tied around my waist flood my memory.

I return to the room, light dimming.