The Girl in the Mirror

The second floor of my house has five mirrors. Two of them are in the bathrooms. One is part of a big, wooden dresser in the master bedroom. The other is hastily screwed onto a wall in my sister’s room. The last one sits just outside of the hallway by the stairs. It looms quietly in the corner, attracting me with a magnetism so strong I can’t help but look at my reflection every time I walk past. Tonight, I stare at it with scrutinizing eyes. I’d just finished a tough workout routine, my cheeks flushed red and forehead covered in sweat. I’m barely dressed in my sports bra and running shorts. I feel as exposed as being naked in public even though I’m alone in my own home. My fingers trail over my body to mark every flaw I see. They brush over the fat on my cheeks, the squishy skin under my arms, the bulge of my stomach, and the lack of space between my thighs. They prod and pinch at the skin there, squeezing until they leave a mark, and my stomach goes queasy at the thought of stepping on to a scale. I don’t do this. I promised myself long ago that I would stop the daily weigh ins. Instead, I continue to look into the mirror, haunted by the image of my body in the past—a chubbier version of the figure I’m staring at now. The mirror tells me it’s not enough. The mirror reprimands me for letting myself go. You’ve had more than a cup of rice today. That cheesecake is really showing on your thighs. You’re out of breath after three reps of bicycle crunches? Figures. Yet you wonder why you’ve been struggling to button your jeans. I tell myself it’s the mirror who’s doing the talking. It’s the mirror, and not my own mind that’s poisoning what I see in my reflection. Sometimes, the mirror speaks to me even when I’m far away from home. It tells me to hide in an oversized t-shirt during a coffee run. To avoid snapping that unflattering selfie of my side profile. To recoil when a boy runs his hands over my love handles. Like a soldier in a trance, I obey the mirror’s every command. It controls me with the deftness of a puppet master, twisting and tying the strings to make me dance.

One day, I want to muster up the courage to cut the strings. I often wonder how it feels to be free from the mirror’s incessant nagging. On some nights, if I squint hard enough, I can almost see past the chunkiness of my body. And if I close my eyes, I can even shut out the devilish voice in my head. Tonight, the mirror releases me from its hold after I slip on a t-shirt and some sweatpants. It takes a great amount of effort to rip my gaze away from the glass. I turn in for the night with an unsettled feeling in my chest. Although the mirror’s voice is gone, I can’t get the image of my body out of my head. Even in my dreams, a girl in the mirror stares back at me with burning eyes. She stands tall despite being naked and exposed. She doesn’t speak, but I hear her voice echoing loud and clear. This is what you could be. Then, her reflection disappears, and the glass in front of me shatters into pieces.

Energy | Sharmin Hossain | Art

Culture | Sharmin Hossain | Art