My fingertips trailed at my reflection in the mirror. The sharp edges, the blurred eyes, the faded color of misery—all on one face.
"Are you coming, or what?" Her voice spun my body around, to catch her with a beaming smile on her face. Her hair was spiraling down her shoulders like a twisted ladder and a small purse was hanging by her side. I could almost hear the jingles of the coins, waiting to be eaten up by the arcade machines.
"No, sorry." I turned back to the mirror and sighed as I reached for a red cloth. She watched as my fingers let go of the cloth, letting it drop onto the face of the mirror.
"Why did you do that?" She slowly took a step forward and leaned against the wall.
"My reflection is hideous. Seeing it every day just reminds me that monsters don't just exist underneath your bed. They are you."
"Butterflies can't see their wings, you know."
"I know." A hint of irritation tickled my voice as I opened up the beer can, letting the disgusting drink go down my throat.
"Then you would know that they can't see how truly beautiful they are, but everyone else can."
"So?"
"People are like that as well."
"Oh." I stopped drinking and watched her yank the cloth off the mirror and curl up in a ball; she lightly tossed it to me and a weak smile formed on her small lips.
"You are like that."
YOU ARE READING
therapy
Short Story"they told us that we needed therapy, as if medication and tainted words could fix broken toys."
