Emptied Albums

WORDS Faith Bugenhagen VISUALS Madison Marzano

When I look in the mirror I see a girl. She stares back at me with eyes that see more than she can acknowledge and a mouth that is trained to remain shut. Her hair lifts with a slight curl, laying midway down her back. It used to be a honey brown, but as time passed she decided to dye it black. I stare beyond her face, lingering my gaze towards her body, the clothes that she wears, all the parts that make her, her. I don’t recognize her. I live out her quiet pain, her inability to express herself emotionally because she’s too fearful of herself, I live out every flaw that paints the anxiety of her mind. I see how it’s covered through her smile, through the weight she bears without letting others’ hold any of it for her. I see how this worry impacts each relationship she shares; either she let’s it get the best of her and breaks her back to make others’ happy, or she pushes those who want to be close away. This is her greatest defense mechanism. Deconstructing this girl, who has wound up her identity so tightly, appears to be detrimental. Fracturing any of her infrastructure would shake her to the core. Having been invested in others’ for far too long, where would she be, and who would she be, today? She would have no life, no purpose,

no measurement of success or failure if not for those around her. Every comment and exchange equates to the idea of worth within herself. To understand her, one must understand and evaluate the way that others’ treated, talked, and loved her. Looking towards this girl, I see her existence within the past. I hold my arms open as she places photographs of her as a baby, then as a kid. She pouts her small lips in front of a bush of yellow flowers in her backyard. Her bangs hang scattered over her forehead and her soft baby cheeks push up at the ends. I see the way that this girl has no concern over herself or her world. She has no inclination as to what life will hand her. Her biggest care in the world is what color stripe T-shirt she will beg her mom to dress her in. She hands me another photograph from the night of her nineteenth birthday. She wears a pomegranate-colored slip as she holds a number nine balloon to her face, kissing it for the camera. Her long dark hair is pulled up and silver earrings decorate the sides of her face. She appears to have it all, celebrating life with her friends by her side. The girl looks at me, her eyes holding some familiar stare, a gaze that tells me to look further, deeper. She knows I can recognize what’s lingering, that beyond soft smiles lies the hidden truth: this girl does not have it all. Beyond that dorm room party, just two hours before, she was grappling with what to say to a guy she thought she loved. She had arrived to the room to get ready, reeking of smoke. She had scrubbed with soap and water, hoping to at least get the smell off her hands. Remnants of ash sticking to the bottom of her shoes, the taste clinging to the back of her throat. She could imagine her lungs now, only slightly damaged

but the permanency still leaving its mark. She wanted to rid herself of the tendency, so to forget, she drank wine as if it were water. The deeper she indulged, the quicker the memory shifted into unconscious territory. But she was just celebrating, blindly and happily, not recklessly, not without abandon. Not as an aid to downplay the situation rampaging in her head. The curtain draws to a close and the photographs flutter away. All that’s left is the girl standing before me, looking up blankly, maybe with a tinge of anticipation. I return her gaze and open my mouth to say something. She reaches up and mouths “no.” She knows I realize how much has changed, she knows I can’t recognize the start and the stop that she herself has been searching for throughout her days. However, she doesn’t extend any regard towards me, no explanation or semblance of anything other than nonchalance. Her arms lay slack along her torso and waist, her eyes appear unafraid, but her brow furrows, signifying her state of discomfort. Now that she’s seen how I understand her, she knows she has shown too much. She has encountered her worst fear, now, and backs away from me in the mirror. I reach out, clasping her wrist. She turns towards me, glaring in my direction. A single tear falls down her eye and pools at her cupid’s bow. The tears begin to fall consistently, yet her gaze remains. She unravels my fıngers, tight against her skin, not wanting to lose grip, and walks away. She bared it all, just to leave. For when everything is shown, she knows it’s time for her to go.