noticemeknot
Ms Believer
I wrote this a couple years ago and just came across the file recently. I think my writing has developed pretty well since then, but I'm very curious as to what you guys think of the story.~ It was based on this picture:
*
She sits upon an antique cushioned stool, staring at herself in the mirror, admiring her features. Makeup litters the vanity; powder of reds and browns and whites dust the shining wood; tools stained with skin pigments, brushes and combs of all different sizes and elegant designs strewn across its surface.
The woman brings her hands to her hair and forms an elaborate twist, held in place by one of her more ornate combs—a body of twisting gold and silver with small glinting beads of jade knotted into the metal like leaves on branches, all surrounding a delicate bird made of crackled turquoise. In the reflection, her pianist hands smooth down flyaway strands and make their way to her face. Her slender fingers trace the outlines of her appearance: the dip of her cheeks and contours of her bones, her sharp aquiline nose and sublime almond eyes, her full rose-pink lips soft as a cloud above her proud chin. She smiles, showing off flawless white teeth. She looks perfect.
Except for one thing…
She frowns, an ugly expression on such an angelic face, and leans in closer to the mirror. There, right at the corner of her left eye, a faint impression of crow’s feet greets her gaze. As she stares, the imperfection makes itself more and more prominent with each passing moment. The woman lifts a finger and rubs gently at the wrinkle as if to smooth it away. Her eyes never once leave her reflection—until she catches a glimpse of her own hand, her real hand, not the parallel copy flashed back at her. Her breath catches in her throat. She stands. Her shaking hands held in front of her, the mirror forgotten, she stares in horror at the sagging, crinkled flesh hanging off her bones like wet laundry.
Her jaw drops, gaping open in a silent scream. Her eyes bulge. Frantically, she runs her fingers over each other, pulling, stretching, trying desperately to make the cracks disappear, to make her hands lovely again. The sleeves of her extravagant golden gown give way and reveal stick-like dainty arms, gray with age that gives a soft contrast to the blue of her veins and yellow of newly-forming liver spots.
With an anguished cry, she tugs down the fabric and holds the ends in her fists. She brings her hands to her head and rakes her scalp with her knuckles, her breathing quick and shallow, shaking as she whimpers. The comb falls from her hair, cracking as it hits the hardwood. Her locks tumble free of the twisting style and fall to frame her face; the ash-gray strands hang limply in front of her eyes.
She screams.
The sound reverberates off the walls, echoing in her ears. Her frail hands tug at clumps of her hair, desperately trying to rip it out. She stumbles dangerously in her heeled shoes as she yanks at her scalp, her voice coming out in mournful sobs, her eyes clamped tightly shut. Her legs carry her around the room and to the cushioned stool. Her foot lands in a crack in the wood. Her heel breaks off. She trips over the stool and falls onto the vanity. The vanity teeters and falls with her. A crash and scream shatter the air, the floor shatters the mirror. The woman doesn’t move. Her only sounds are slow and hollow breaths.
A shard of glass, stained red, lies near her neck which flaunts a bright sliver of crimson; she wears it like a wonderful necklace of rubies. Her blood oozes from the gash and puddles around her body, tears leak from her distant eyes that stare straight ahead. In front of her is a mirror shard, propped up by a wall of the room. The shard flashes the image of a gorgeous melancholy eye; the iris a brilliant sea green, untarnished without a single blemish.
Except for one thing…
There, in the corner of the eye reflected back at her, deep indentations of crow’s feet mar the skin, drooping like dying flowers. The woman lets out one more heart wrenching cry as her own little fantasy ends.
"I… can be beautiful too…!"
The woman doesn’t move. She doesn’t make a sound
*
She sits upon an antique cushioned stool, staring at herself in the mirror, admiring her features. Makeup litters the vanity; powder of reds and browns and whites dust the shining wood; tools stained with skin pigments, brushes and combs of all different sizes and elegant designs strewn across its surface.
The woman brings her hands to her hair and forms an elaborate twist, held in place by one of her more ornate combs—a body of twisting gold and silver with small glinting beads of jade knotted into the metal like leaves on branches, all surrounding a delicate bird made of crackled turquoise. In the reflection, her pianist hands smooth down flyaway strands and make their way to her face. Her slender fingers trace the outlines of her appearance: the dip of her cheeks and contours of her bones, her sharp aquiline nose and sublime almond eyes, her full rose-pink lips soft as a cloud above her proud chin. She smiles, showing off flawless white teeth. She looks perfect.
Except for one thing…
She frowns, an ugly expression on such an angelic face, and leans in closer to the mirror. There, right at the corner of her left eye, a faint impression of crow’s feet greets her gaze. As she stares, the imperfection makes itself more and more prominent with each passing moment. The woman lifts a finger and rubs gently at the wrinkle as if to smooth it away. Her eyes never once leave her reflection—until she catches a glimpse of her own hand, her real hand, not the parallel copy flashed back at her. Her breath catches in her throat. She stands. Her shaking hands held in front of her, the mirror forgotten, she stares in horror at the sagging, crinkled flesh hanging off her bones like wet laundry.
Her jaw drops, gaping open in a silent scream. Her eyes bulge. Frantically, she runs her fingers over each other, pulling, stretching, trying desperately to make the cracks disappear, to make her hands lovely again. The sleeves of her extravagant golden gown give way and reveal stick-like dainty arms, gray with age that gives a soft contrast to the blue of her veins and yellow of newly-forming liver spots.
With an anguished cry, she tugs down the fabric and holds the ends in her fists. She brings her hands to her head and rakes her scalp with her knuckles, her breathing quick and shallow, shaking as she whimpers. The comb falls from her hair, cracking as it hits the hardwood. Her locks tumble free of the twisting style and fall to frame her face; the ash-gray strands hang limply in front of her eyes.
She screams.
The sound reverberates off the walls, echoing in her ears. Her frail hands tug at clumps of her hair, desperately trying to rip it out. She stumbles dangerously in her heeled shoes as she yanks at her scalp, her voice coming out in mournful sobs, her eyes clamped tightly shut. Her legs carry her around the room and to the cushioned stool. Her foot lands in a crack in the wood. Her heel breaks off. She trips over the stool and falls onto the vanity. The vanity teeters and falls with her. A crash and scream shatter the air, the floor shatters the mirror. The woman doesn’t move. Her only sounds are slow and hollow breaths.
A shard of glass, stained red, lies near her neck which flaunts a bright sliver of crimson; she wears it like a wonderful necklace of rubies. Her blood oozes from the gash and puddles around her body, tears leak from her distant eyes that stare straight ahead. In front of her is a mirror shard, propped up by a wall of the room. The shard flashes the image of a gorgeous melancholy eye; the iris a brilliant sea green, untarnished without a single blemish.
Except for one thing…
There, in the corner of the eye reflected back at her, deep indentations of crow’s feet mar the skin, drooping like dying flowers. The woman lets out one more heart wrenching cry as her own little fantasy ends.
"I… can be beautiful too…!"
The woman doesn’t move. She doesn’t make a sound
