I can’t stand it when she looks at me. She just stares, blankly oblivious to the shivers she causes to run up and down my spine. Those dead, hazel eyes just floating like so much flotsam adrift in a sea of wrinkles.
The cracked expanse of her face drives me insane. It looks as though she has turned to leather and then cracked with misuse and inattentive care. The crevices distract me, making me feel almost sorry for her, for the life she’s endured to cause such devastation.
Her mouth, once plump and sultry, now tugs itself into a perpetual frown, drawing her colorless lips thin and tight. Always looking like she’s had two lemons too many, her lips never allow pleasantries to pass. Her voice, when it does fitfully emerge, drips with corrosiveness, eroding whatever good feelings I may have had.
Her halo of brittle, thirsty hair angers me. It seems to want to draw my attention to her, forcing me to deal yet again with her hated presence. But I can never decide if I’d rather face her gorgon’s mane or if it would be easier to deal with a naked head. I fear the nakedness would pull me deeper into the crevices of her face, to drown in her dead eyes.
I can’t stand the pain of looking at her. I hate her. I hate how she stares at me, so, eventually, I turn from the mirror and try to forget. Forget what I’ve become and pretend again that I am what everyone else sees.