August 2, 2019
Every time she was confronted by a mirror, the first thing to meet her offered gaze was the returning one from the reflected image. Eyes that bore too deep, saw too much. Occasionally the pair of them would break from one another to inspect every inch of skin that sat between. Like spotlights they would peer into the imperfections presented on the reversed image, prompting a finger to touch and confirm its presence with a second sense. This charade would only go for so long before those eyes found one another again.
Blue, critical, sharp like daggers.
What did they see in those black abysses situated amongst pools of glassy sea? An odd feeling would creep up from her toes. Her hair would stand at attention, her breaths would reflect the ascent. Whispers filled her ears, emerging from some unknown depth.
Brows would furrow from either side. Confusion riddled the face she saw. Riddled her own. Who was that she saw? Those imperfections, those lines and spots. No matter where she looked, the image was the same. That of a stranger. When was she last this present?
This stranger donned the face of a pensive mute, lost in thought. Even this seemed disorienting. Her eyes found the eyes of the other, locked on again.
They say you grow into your eyes; that they never change. As you walk through the ages of life into death, the eyes which guide you are the ones you’ve come to know since childhood. The world is a whirlwind of uncertainty, the mirror is a portrait of time. One day you see the face of a child, then a woman, then a crone. Fluid save for one piece.
Eyes. They bore in time and again. Familiar, unchanging.
Until they shut forever.
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