It turns out, about a week.
Until the day the commercial aired, to be exact. I was told it was a
wonderful success, and the party Caroline had thrown for everyone was grand
fun. But I didn’t know because I wasn’t there.
While dressing for the party, I wanted to check my appearance in a
mirror. I hadn’t thought about mirrors in a while. It seemed strange, that day,
I hadn’t looked in a mirror for so long. But then, I hadn’t had a reason to do
so. I hadn’t worn makeup since before my turning and I didn’t usually do much
with my hair. But I was nervous, and I wanted to ensure I looked okay.
Nick had left an hour earlier because he had promised to help with set up
for the party; I would have left with him but I was specifically told I wasn’t
to arrive until the party started, and it would be even better if I was
fashionably late. Remembering the vanity Drei had bought when we first moved
here—that I hardly used—I went into Nick’s room. Sure enough, it was in the
corner with a few cologne bottles, hair gel, and some other grooming things of
his lined up in front of the mirror.
I could already see the dress in the mirror and knew it looked nice, but
that wasn’t my concern. I wanted to know if it looked nice on me. So backing
up, I looked again, and the dress was still there…but I wasn’t. I thought it
was that I was too far away and my vision was going bad. But when I neared the
mirror to just look at my face, it wasn’t there. My earrings were, but not my
face.
Immediately falling into denial, I left the room, searching the kitchen
for a pot, a bowl, a ladle, anything that was reflective. I pulled open the
cabinets, grabbing everything that might have worked, and when I had gone
through all of those, I went through the drawers, snatching up cutting knives
and teaspoons, even forks. And in all of them, I wasn’t there. It was like I
didn’t exist.
I swiped everything off the counter onto the floor, threw the mixing
bowls in different directions—the sound of something smashing reached me though
I didn’t care enough to know what; I slammed the drawers and cabinet doors,
oblivious that they just swung back open with the force. My hands reached into
the open cabinets, taking up plates and glasses. I didn’t care what happened to
that damned kitchen with all of its reflective dishes and silverware that
couldn’t find me; it didn’t matter if I broke a plate here or a glass there. It
didn’t bother me I had cut my hand with a knife when I grabbed the wrong end,
or that I was crying so hard everything was a blur. None of it mattered.
I didn’t matter.
I wasn’t alive, and that meant I didn’t have a reflection; I wasn’t able
to prove to myself I still existed. For all I knew I really was a ghost. I had
died back in that hospital room and was so in denial that everyone just told me
I was somehow still walking upright and solid.
Stumbling from the kitchen, I couldn’t stop crying. I was crying so hard
I felt sick and like I was suffocating. But I couldn’t stop; it wouldn’t stop
hurting. I didn’t even know what was hurting. My knees went weak and I
collapsed on the carpet.
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