Beauty DiSt0Rt3d

Trigger warning: Mental health, body image, mention of pharmaceutical drug use/abuse, mention of death/suicide

    I remember when she first moved in. For days, the apartment was alive with sound. Family and friends joyfully jostled around boxes and bags. Furniture legs squealed as they skidded across the floor to find the perfect arrangement. The pounding and whirring of hammers and drills overshadowed all other noise until they resulted in the eruption of celebrations for each completed project, which I could only assume were the likes of building bookshelves, hanging picture frames, and all those sort of things that make a place feel like a home.

    Over the course of the next few weeks, I managed to put faces to most of the voices I had heard as those same family and friends visited for dinner or drinks. None of the faces she invited over, nor those of the tenants and guests who had come before her, not one could hold a candle to hers.

    As the excitement settled, and the frenzy of constant new faces slowed, I was able to focus on her and learn her routine. I quickly found there was a light in her that brightened my entire world.

     I would wake with the sun, as it peaked through the open doorway every morning, just to eagerly await my chance to see her. Her alarm would ring out, and moments later, there she was in front of me. She would turn to look at me and giggle as she ruffled her mess of hair, sometimes pairing the act with a goofy face of feigned disgust, curling her lip or wrinkling her nose. Often, she would tell me how crazy she thought she looked. Then, she would crouch out of sight for a few moments before she returned to me and ran the water. She would turn me away to collect her toothbrush from somewhere behind me as I waited impatiently to be returned to my place where I could see her. She always made silly faces after brushing her teeth; spreading her lips too wide to be a smile and sticking her tongue out as if asking me to confirm that everything was spotless. She would wash and lotion her face, run her fingers through her hair until it brought on a slight grin of achievement, and she was gone again. She would return moments later in a change of clothes to show me from every direction how stunning she was before leaving for the day.

    With any other tenant, I would have been glad when they were through with me since it meant an opportunity for silent rest. With her, I stayed awake, watching over my still, silent room as the day dragged by. I simply couldn’t stand the thought of being dormant and missing her return.

     As the sunlight began to fade, I would hear her arrive home, and finally she would be there before me again. There was always music in the evenings back then. She would turn the music up then turn away from me to undress and step into the shower. Her magical voice coated me in warmth and filled the room with sparkling fragrant mist. By the time the mist cleared, she was all dressed to go out or in her favorite pajamas for a night in. Either way, she was giving me the concert of my life, dancing and singing into her brush like a microphone between sweeps through her hair.

    As time went on, all those moments began to change. Her alarm would blare on obnoxiously at great lengths, often starting and stopping over and over before she finally came to see me. She started spending more time with me in the mornings. She would apply layer after layer of makeup to her face and spread creams and foams and gels through her hair until it maintained an unnatural stillness in whatever style she chose for the day. She also began showing me multiple different outfits before throwing up her hands and saying, “This one will just have to do.” Of course, she was always gorgeous when she left me for the day, but it pained me to watch her cover her true face and pin down her wild wisps of hair. Why, after all that work, could she still never seem pleased with herself?

    One day, she came home carrying some thin plastic thing which she placed on the floor out of my view. Every day, I could hear her step on it. She would twirl her hair nervously as she stared at it. Then, she would look at me, pinching her stomach between her fingers with real disgust on her face. I didn’t understand what the thing on the floor was, or how just looking at it could make her mood worse. I did know, however, that disgust didn’t suit her. She was beautiful in every way, and despite the thing on the floor, she should have seen that clearly when she looked at me.

     It wasn’t long before the music stopped. There were fewer showers, and none of them came with concerts. She never went out in the evenings anymore, and nobody ever came over. Every night was a lonely night in. She often arrived before me red-eyed with her face puffy and makeup streaked. I found myself wondering, daily, where her light had gone. Now, when she turned me away, she still sometimes had her toothbrush in hand when I returned to my place, but not always. Sometimes, it was just the bottle of pills. I didn’t know what they were for, but I hoped they were to fix her broken smile.

      Some nights, she came in and cried in front of me. It had always felt awkward when previous tenants did that. They seemed like superficial children as they wailed about failing a test, not getting a job, or a boy who even I could see wasn’t worth so much energy. Her tears never felt childish. They were too real. She never told me why the tears came, but it was like her soul was bleeding out before me. Her eyes that once shined with love and light and cheer, were dark with despair and self-loathing. The harmonic musical notes in her vocal cords were replaced by dissonant whimpers. Whimsical lyrics were replaced by hateful words which she spat like venom. This woman who meant the most to me seemed suddenly obsessed with “less.” Worthless. Useless. Pointless.

    I wondered what I had done wrong. Why did she seem to break a little more every time she looked at me? What was wrong with my surface? How could I absorb her in all her beauty but project such a distorted image back? I wished to be the one breaking in her place. What good was I, anyway, if I couldn’t show her what I saw?

    Soon, I started begging for sleep. I no longer wanted to see what she had become. I wanted to sleep and dream of who she had been. I couldn’t watch her light fade anymore. But sleep eluded me. Maybe I was too worried about her to simply block her out. Or, perhaps, it was because somewhere within me glimmered a hope that she would come in happy and singing again. I wouldn’t want to miss it when it happened.

    Finally, it did happen. She had not set her alarm that morning, so I was pleasantly surprised when she walked in. She smiled at me for the first time in a long time. It wasn’t the happiest smile I had seen grace her face, but it calmed me. She turned her music on, and though she didn’t sing along or dance, it felt like progress. She brushed her teeth and did her hair and makeup. Then, for the first time in a long time, when she returned all dressed up, she stepped back and seemed to admire herself before leaving for the day.

    In my excitement, I never heard the front door when she left. I spent the day eagerly awaiting her return, knowing with full certainty that in the evening, there would be music again. I knew she must have had hundreds of smiles, new dance moves, and song lyrics ready to burst forth like confetti after holding them in for so long. That evening, all would be normal again.

    Night fell, and the sun rose, but she never came. The sun crept through the open doorway and faded out again repeatedly. I waited as long as I could before the darkness engulfed me and I went dormant.

    I woke to the sound of voices I had never heard before. The commotion continued on and off over the course of the next few days. I couldn’t understand half of what they said, so I was even more confused by what they might be doing here. I strained to hear her voice, even once, amongst the strangers but never did. I hoped she would visit me, but the only faces I saw were those of unfamiliar people in uniforms.

    Finally, a familiar face arrived. It was the woman she called Mom. Mom wore all black and tears welled in her eyes as she gingerly placed various items into a box. Was my tenant moving? If so, why hadn’t she come to gather her own things? Mom turned me away, removed the toothbrush from behind me, and I was appalled to hear it hit the bottom of the garbage can. What was going on? Did Mom not know she would need that toothbrush when she returned home?

    When Mom put me back in my place, I saw her juggling pill bottles, analyzing each one. I never realized there were so many bottles hidden behind me. Surely, there were enough to fix a smile, cure a voice, piece together positive lyrics, stop tears from falling, and recover vision so that beauty can be seen again. All these pills were proof. She was trying so hard. I knew for certain that change was coming. Light would return.

    But Mom did not seem to feel the same. She slammed the bottles down and, with a shrill cry of agony, the tears overflowed and streamed down her face. Dad came in just in time to catch Mom as she collapsed, falling into him.

    “I didn’t know! How could we not know?” Mom cried out, bawling. Dad stood like a statue, tears rolling slow and silent over his cheeks as Mom sobbed loudly against his chest. When Mom began to settle, struggling to catch her breath, Dad brushed the hair back from her face and told her that they couldn’t have known because she didn’t tell them. He said they both would have helped her if they’d only known. He said she hid it too well. His voice creaked and cracked when he spoke as if something had broken, leaving a disconnection somewhere within him that forced the words to fight their way out.

    I knew I was missing something-and I don’t mean her. Of course I missed her, but in that moment, I was missing something about her. There was some blatantly obvious fact that I simply could not grasp. It seemed, to me, that apparently, Mom and Dad could not grasp it either. Their faces were a strange mixture of remorse, pain, and confusion as they left.

    Again, I was alone. I prayed for her return, begged to understand, pleaded to forget the tearful faces of Mom and Dad and the sounds of their agony. If I could have screamed, cried, or shattered entirely, I would have in the sleepless weeks that followed. When sleep finally came, it did nothing to ease my sorrow.

    “Don’t worry, we can negotiate rent.” A man’s voice.

    “I don’t know, it’s not really the rent that bothers me. I’ve heard the rumors.” A woman’s voice, but not hers.

    “Listen, I understand your concern, but—”

    “I just don’t know if I can live here knowing the last tenant killed herself here. It’s pretty creepy.”

    Realization. Wait. No, I wasn’t even sure if I was awake or asleep. This couldn’t be real, could it? No, she would come home. She had to. I thought of the last time I saw her. She smiled. She played music. She wore her favorite outfit. The last time I saw her, she lifted the shroud-just a little bit-to show me the light in her was still there. She gave me hope.

    But I never heard the door. I never heard her leave. She never left, yet I knew she had gone. That was the obvious thing I could not grasp. I wanted to give it back (the knowing), I didn’t want it. Knowing did not help. It hurt. And knowing did not make me understand. It only brought more questions, questions that no one could answer, even if I were able to ask.

    “Oh, the mirror’s cracked.”

    I had not even noticed them coming in. This new woman, not mine, was pointing at me in disappointment. I despised her face, beautiful as it was, because it wasn’t the one I so desperately needed to see. And I hated myself.

    I was cracked? I was not even aware. Had that happened recently? Did the revelation of her death, the fact that I would never see her again cause it? Or had I been cracked all along? Did my imperfect surface prevent her from seeing what I saw? Was I the reason that her light slowly faded until she chose to put it out for good?

    Many faces came to see the apartment before I got a new tenant. He seemed to be a good person, and handsome, but I felt nothing for him. I have felt nothing for the tenants after him either. None of their faces will ever be hers.

    I’m still here, though I beg every day to be replaced. I spend my days simply performing my duty, just waiting for the day when I cease to be. Despite my cracked surface, I have reflected everyone exactly as they expected. I wish I could say that I take pride in that work, but it only hurts more knowing that I am good enough for them when I was not good enough for her. I wonder why they all keep this cracked mirror who failed the one that mattered the most. I wonder when someone will take me from my place, smash me, and toss my pieces in the trash like Mom did with the toothbrush. When will they just let me end?

    It’s a cruel fate I was given to be able to experience a life without being a part of it. I could hear her voice but was unable to respond. I could take joy in her laughter but never laugh with her. I watched her cry with no ability to ask why she cried, dry her tears, or comfort her. I could see her light but could not show it to her. I got to know her without truly knowing her.

    How I wish someone had truly known her.