Something has changed in her. On the rare occasions I see her, she always avoids me. Though I am always right in front of her when we do happen to meet, she avoids eye contact with me as though I am something terrible. I would catch her glancing; I would look back; she would dart her gaze away and leave promptly. It saddens me greatly.
She may not remember, but I remember everything. From the very moment we first met, she was being held nearly sky-high by her mother, who murmured things like, “You see? You see? That’s you!” She was much smaller in those days, and very wrinkly. I’ve watched her grow into someone nearly unrecognizable—though no matter how much she grew, I could always see features that remained from her younger, wrinkly self.
At some point in her growth, I no longer met her in the same places as before. Instead, I saw her elsewhere—this time she was nearly always alone. She seemed happy and determined in those days, and every time she brushed her teeth, washed her face, did her hair… I could see a grin that was ready to conquer anything. I didn’t see her with her mother nearly as much—and I assumed that she had become independent. Sometimes, though, I saw her with a man—handsome—even if strange at times. Sometimes they would argue and fight… over something—I would never be able to tell. I heard muffled screams and ridicule, and yet I could only continue to gaze at nothing. Doors would slam often, and when I would see her again, she would be bawling, makeup running down her face as she tried to stop her tears. She didn’t look at me at all in those times, and, one day, I never saw the man again.
Since then, every time we faced each other, she seemed to shed a tear—and then inevitably she would look at me no longer until the next day or sometime later. I knew it was because she was sad, and I knew her sadness originated from that man. I yearned to talk to her about how her feelings were only temporary, and that I loved her very much. But, of course, that was impossible, for I have no mouth. Sometimes, she would be talking to someone on the phone in front of me. Her mother, her friends. They would tell her they loved her as well, though I felt as though only her mother meant it with true sincerity, and she, too, reassured her that it was temporary. I was happy someone could do it in my place.
A month later she was fine and happy again. I couldn’t have been more grateful, and—believe it—she had even begun to sing during her shower times! I wish I could have seen her face—if only my own wasn’t so clouded as to block my vision. However, I knew that she was undoubtedly happy.
Her happiness continued for some months. Of course, there were setbacks and uncertainties, but I was prepared to face them—and her—with vigor and a hopeless desire to help and empower. One day, however, in the bathroom, where I often see her, she made no effort to spend any time in front of me. Her clothes were tattered, and she seemed so soiled, and her hair was so frizzy. She shook violently as she threw her clothes off, and without a word or a glance toward me, into the shower she went. I got a peek at her clothes before I would inevitably be unable to see. Her underwear was stained red and white—I believe some torn skin was apparent as well.
She showered for a long time that day. She was in there for an hour before I heard the rustling of the shower curtain. The water stopped flowing, and there was silence. There was another rustle of the shower curtain, and the water turned back on. I did not see her for the rest of the night.
A week passed, and now I seldom see her in the mornings. Only a week or two ago would I have seen her making herself look her best before going off to work. Now, such was not the case, and the earliest I saw her was right before she turned the computer screen on. During these times, I could see her face wince and her eyes scrunch up in some kind of mental agony, and as the screen loaded to a bright white, I did not see her again. She used to laugh with her coworkers, while doing her work. A special woman she was; to be able to handle both work and social life. No longer did she talk to her coworkers, and when they tried to converse with her, she responded with little interest, almost harshly. She only violently tapped away at her keyboard, and on occasion she sobbed. Sometimes her work suffered from the sloppiness that tears and sadness induced, and though she tried her hardest to fix it, there were some mistakes that were sent to management—and they were noticed and tallied.
They would inquire about her from time to time. “Are you okay?” “You can tell me anything, okay?” were what they said most often. “Yes.” “Thank you.” were all she gave in return. The questions and responses were terribly empty and meaningless.
Two weeks passed like this, and she was called into her boss’s office. I could see her in the office, for the man wore spectacles. She seemed terribly nervous and afraid, and her eyes showed that she knew what was about to happen. She was fired that day, and no amount of crying and pleading could spare her. “Your work isn’t to our standards,” the man said. “Though you were a wonderful employee, we must let you go. We hope that whatever is going on in your life improves.”
She ran out of the building and towards her car, crying all the while. I would see her in flashes—from glass buildings, from the polished metal of cars, from puddles of water… I dreamed of reaching out to her—offering my help and condolences—a chance to ask her if everything was alright and what I could do to help… But of course, I could not.
Once she got in her car, I could only see the very top of her head. She would glance at me, though not at my eyes. It was as though she were looking at something else. Eventually, she pulled into the driveway of her mother’s house. I did not see them, but I could hear them from the bathroom, only a hallway away. They were talking. She was in tears the whole time, and she told her mother that sometime after she and her boyfriend separated, he dragged her away at night and raped her in the back of his car—and that she had been unable to tell anyone all this time. She could not say why, and so deeply was she ashamed that she felt as though she could die. She then told her that, because she had been unable to contain her emotions, she had gotten fired from her job. Once she was done talking, she burst into tears, her wails resounding through the whole home. At the news, her mother cried too, and I could make out the words “It will be all right” and “I am here for you.” This continued for the rest of the night, and the next morning the two of them talked again. Her mother said she would go to the police station and report the man, asking for her daughter’s phone so she could provide his information and their text messages. The daughter agreed, swapping phones with her mother. Sometime later the mother left. The daughter waited in the home, pacing anxiously; I could hear her steps. Sometimes I would see her. She would visit only to splash her face with water, but she would not look at me. Sometimes she would come only to look down and bite her nails. These times, too, I wished I could reach out to her. Of course, I could not.
Hours passed, and the mother still had not returned. The daughter thought of calling, but her anxiety and fear paralyzed her. She waited still—until it was nearly midnight. Her phone rang, and I could hear a sigh as she quickly silenced it, followed by a quick “Mom?” I could not hear what she heard, but I could hear her breath grow quicker and heavier. The front door slammed shut, and again I could only see the top of her head. She sped off—somewhere; I do not know where. She was sobbing and screaming the whole time—cursing herself for everything she was and for everything she wasn’t.
I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish I could have hugged her right now. I wish I could have said her name. “Eveline!” I would say, “Please, do not go! You are not terrible. You are not a coward, and it is not your fault that Ethan killed your mother. He means to lure you away, to get you, too. Please, I know you are confused and scared—but you need to return. Call the police—call your friends—call anybody. Please, if you must go, do not go alone. He is sure to do something to you! I can see you are shaking. You are swerving and your tears blind you to the road. Please, Eveline. I love you, with all my heart, I love you. I want nothing but to see you grow. When you were born, I was born, and with your unique features I became unique as well. You gave me life—and every time I get the chance to see you, I am stunned by your complexity. When you admire yourself, I admire you as well. When you berate yourself, I am there to remind you of who you are. Every emotion you have, I have. I love you, Eveline! You must stay safe, not for me, but for yourself! I can hear your cries of not caring about your life anymore… but please listen! Your misfortunes don’t make you, and this mishap is no different. I do not know everything—I cannot be with you at all times—and yet, you are everything to me. If you could just…”
My words would stop there, as the car suddenly parked in front of a forest. Immediately, she got out of the car, and I could still hear her cries and curses as she went away. Eventually, I could hear her no longer. An hour passed, and suddenly my vision began to fade. These last moments of mine—I wished. I wish I could speak. I wish I could have reached out to her—as a mere reflection. Perhaps then, I could have saved her.
Comments