The Girl in the Bathroom Mirror

Note: This story contains themes of sexual violence and mental health.

Everything reminded me of her. Her very soul lurked in that house, I think— it was less that I saw her, saw her hair still on the furniture and her smell still clinging to the curtains— she was just there. Like she never left. Sometimes I swore I could hear her humming in the kitchen, swore I saw glimpses of her in the mirrors. I knew it was just the part of me that missed her, of course. I felt like such a cliche in those days, wandering around an empty house and wallowing in my own grief. I didn’t realize that kind of misery was real. I’d lost people before, yes. Grandparents, friends, pets. None of them hurt like her. Not even close. 

I moved out of that house once I realized how I’d been acting. I needed to get away from myself, away from everything. The new house was out of the way, miles from the nearest town and nestled in the middle of a dense forest. I needed to avoid the eyes, and I needed to be alone with myself. People knew about her. They’d look at me with some combination of pity and discomfort. That look made my stomach twist. Them even knowing about her sent bile up in my throat. I never wanted people to know that she was gone, or know how horribly it destroyed me. It would have been easier to ignore, I think, if I didn’t get looked at like that by people. 

Nobody knows me here, though. I’m thousands of miles from the house she lived in, and I’m finally able to breathe. I’m not lonely, despite the circumstances— it truly is better this way. The only friends and family I had left were hers. They were kind people, and well meaning, for the most part, but they were also a constant reminder of what I’d lost. 

The only way to cut away the remainders of her was to leave. 

I don’t regret my decision. It’s been peaceful. The house is more of a cabin, really, with only one bedroom and a tiny bathroom. I don’t mind it. Most days I spend my time outside on the porch, watching the deer amble through the woods and the rabbits gnaw on the foliage near the steps. They calm me, I think. Watching the animals go about their lives, utterly unbothered and carefree. I like the reminder that there are still pure things in the world. I watch the ocean, too, some days— it’s only a 20 minute drive. I found a spot where people don’t go, where the trees meet the rocks and you can still feel the water lapping at your feet. I don’t go out to swim, despite the heat of the summer. I tried once, a few weeks ago, until my chest collapsed on itself and the salt clung to my skin and left dried up trails on my cheeks. All I could do after that was wash up on the rocks, withering beside the seaweed. It was never meant to be removed from the ocean— I was never meant to be removed from her. She loved to swim. 

I don’t like the days that I have to go to town for groceries and such. People always attempt to make conversation, to ask questions like where are you from and whats your name? I don’t always remember the answer, not right away. 

“I like your hair.” 

I look down at the child standing before me. She’s young, probably eight, with blonde hair nearly down to her waist. My heart cinches, but I manage a smile, squatting down to eye level with her. 

“Well, thank you. I like yours.” 

The child grins, looking up at my head. I dyed my hair after I lost her. It used to be beautiful, but it didn’t suit me anymore. It’s short, now, too, cropped closely around my ears. I don’t have to style it that way. 

I stand back up, giving the girl another smile as she runs back to her mother. The kid looks strikingly similar to the way she did when she was a child. I remember the pictures of her in her youth that decorated that old house, of her with her parents, smiling like nothing else in the world mattered, eyes shining with glee. 

I try not to let myself dwell on it too much. 

I see her when I sleep, sometimes. It's usually in passing. She always had a propensity towards vivid dreams, vivid nightmares. She used to write them down on her phone first thing when she woke up in the morning, making sure to document them. It’s the one thing she left me with, those dreams, those nightmares. 

It's a nightmare night.

I see her going into an apartment with a group of friends. I see her downing a shot of tequila, then another. They’re pressed into her hand by the man beside her, his mouth closed into a hard line. He never smiled, throughout the entire nightmare. Not while he poured another shot, not while he watched her stumble to the bathroom, not while he followed her in. She tried to shove at his chest with her hands, but it was clumsy, drunk, and he was too large to be moved. He didn’t see her tears, or hear her slurred pleas, or he simply didn’t care. He remained stoic. She looked away from him, then, into the bathroom mirror at her own reflection, at the blonde hair that was nearly to her waist. She gave up. That was the moment I lost her forever. 

I can’t move immediately when I open my eyes. By the time I can, I’m stumbling to the tiny bathroom, my limbs shaking and coated in cold sweat. I yank the faucet on, splashing water generously onto my face, trying to rid myself of the image of them. It’s burned into my eyelids, into my heart, into everything I’ve become. 

I don’t turn the faucet off, even once I’ve decided the water won’t do anything to help me. It covers up the sound of my ragged breathing, of the wheeze from deep in my lungs. I look up, slowly, at the back of the mirror I turned around. I turned them all around first thing when I moved in. 

I reach up shakily, hesitating for a moment before grabbing the sides of the mirror, slowly maneuvering it to face me, the way it should. A choked sob escapes my throat. 

She stares back at me for the first time in months, her eyes glittering with tears. She’s hollowed out, thinner than she used to be, with less color in her cheeks, but it is undeniably her. Undeniably me. 

I cannot let him kill her. I cannot let him kill the woman that looked in the bathroom mirror. I cannot let him kill the woman that loved to swim in the ocean. I cannot let him kill the joyful little girl from the photographs. 

I cannot let him kill me.