. . . .Mirror . . . .

“WHO are you?”
I look at you, and you stare back at me with those bloodshot, drunk eyes. You smirk as you finger your messy clothes. I just stare as you lean forward. I follow your motion.
“Why, I am the monster you created...”
I continue to examine your appearance, weighing your words in my head. What did you mean? Is your current state really my fault?
You seem nonplussed about your current, shabby state. Your hair, once silky and healthy, now looks like the leaves of a malnourished bush. Dark circles below your eyes, accentuated by sallow skin – were you always so pale?
You seem skinnier than ever. Were you always so thin that it felt like you would fall over with the slightest nudge? I cannot even recall the smile you used to have – the genuine smile that came from your heart. Now, all that I hear from you are those bone-chilling, hollow laughs – laughter only because of the sound, and not the feeling involved – its coarse texture not bearing any of the smoothness it once possessed.
Your lips have become paler where they have not been burnt by cigarettes. The once-smooth texture is now a crumpled mess of dried-up skin which you bit on, making your lips bleed.
I feel dizzy all of a sudden. So I clutch the bathroom counter for support. Splashing some cold water onto my face, I feel better. I look up at you again, water droplets rolling your face, sitting on your eyelashes. You lick at your lip where you had initially broken the skin, trying to soothe the faint sting.
I tear my eyes my eyes away from you and look at the syringes and wide array of tablets on my counter. The tablets were in various shapes and sizes, the syringes used and empty. I open a cabinet, bring out a tiny bottle and fill a new syringe with some liquid from that bottle. As I inject myself with this drug, I feel much better. All those thoughts I had a while ago fade away. I look at you again.
Who said you look like a wreck? You are fine. You are still as you were, with a few differences here and there, but that does not count. You are happy, right? And that is all that matters.
Even if time was coming to an end for you, there was satisfaction. You feel sated, don't you? I feel sated. I feel elated. Like I could do no wrong.
I reached out to touch the smooth surface separating us. My fingertips meet yours as you mimic my movement. Are your fingers really that cold, or is it the mirror?
As I stare at you, and you look back at me with those bloodshot, drunk eyes, I realize you are my reflection.
“You are not the monster I created….rather, you are the monster that is in me…”

Eshika Ahmed is a young and upcoming writer