Mirror, Mirror, Mirror
A Flash Fiction by Isabelle Hichens
The stepmother
I’m beautiful, I’m beautiful, I’m beautiful. Not. Anymore. New morning, new furrow on my old face, my barren land. There was a time when my face was fresh, dewy like a spring garden, like HERS is now. She doesn’t know how lucky she is with her eyelids like rose petals and her mouth, a juicy strawberry. ‘Yes, but you’ve got experience, they say, you know who you are’; bollocks, I’d trade my skills in all domains, my knowledge of life and my “confidence” for her tender neck, her satin cheeks and soft surprised eyes any day. She mustn’t know I feel that way. I hide under layers of serum and foundation. I conceal and pretend. I am beautiful.
The teenage daughter
Another spot this morning, on my chin, sneering at me. I stick a pimple patch on it, I still see it, it’s there, raising its ugly little white head, mocking me. I hate my face. I hate everything. I’m going to fail; I can’t do it. I messed up my maths test yesterday, I can’t do maths. I hate school anyway. I hate Jacob and he hates me. He likes Beth better. Beth is so pretty; her hair is lush. Everybody is nicer than me. Even that WITCH that Dad decided to marry. She’s old and an absolute bitch, but she looks good. I nicked her cream last night, the very expensive one. It works on her but not on me. I’m just a giant spot with fat legs and she’s spotlessly perfect. I hate her, I’m going to have another doughnut.
The mirror
I wish they would give me a promotion
I’m frustrated with my limitation
I show you your mouths, noses and eyes
I reflect the smiles, the frowns, the spots, the blemishes, the lines
Nothing ugly
No beauty
I give you physical, neutral accuracy
But is it reality?
They say that I can’t lie
But that statement I would deny.
With me you only see the surface
And I’m sad that it’s making you nervous,
Angry, depressed, really, it’s ridiculous.
What I need is an upgrade
So that when you look at me, you’re not afraid
And I can show you
What lies within you
Underneath that harsh surface
Of spots, lines, pimples and wrinkles
The treasure of humanity
That is your real beauty
Brighter than all jewels
Your very precious souls.
Author: Originally from France, Isabelle loves the English language and particularly relishes the challenge of creating meaningful stories using a small number of words. She lives in Oxfordshire with her husband and three children and teaches French and Spanish in a lovely school.