Show me that pretty face

Content warning (highlight to reveal): Body horror/self harm

While I absolutely respect the necessity of social distancing, last weekend I got really fed up with being cooped up on my own. 

I decided to check out an outdoor flea market to get out of the house. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular; I just needed some fresh air and a bit of face-to-face interaction, even if it was from 6 feet away through a mask. 

I perused the various booths and vendors, but not much caught my eye. I found myself quickly wishing for the air-conditioned comfort of my condo. I had forgotten to wear sunscreen, and I could feel the skin on the back of my neck baking in the late-morning sun. My breath was growing humid in the confines of my mask, and the cotton was starting to stick to my face with every breath. This wasn't the invigorating outing I had hoped for. I’ve always loved shopping at antique stores and thrift shops, but it’s not the same when you can’t run your fingertips over the intricate weaving of an old tapestry, or lean close to inhale the crisp, woodsy scent of an old cedar wardrobe. 

My mind continued to wander in this melancholy direction as I aimlessly made my way to the end of the row. I was just about to trudge back to the car, morose and empty-handed, when a bright flash of light blinded me. My hand shot up instinctively to shield my eyes, and I looked around for the source. 

On the ground, leaning against the support pole of a tent, stood a massive, ornate mirror. Its rectangular frame was painted in a gold metallic that was now dull with age, inset with an intricate design. I watched in the reflection as my sandaled feet approached.
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It was even more impressive up close. The frame was neoclassical in style, made of a heavy wood and engraved in a pattern of winding ivy, gilt with gold leaf that had started to flake off. The reflective surface itself was in astonishingly good shape for its age with only minor desilvering near the corners. There was a faint crack down the center, but it was so fine that it was practically invisible when facing it head-on. Mindlessly, I reached out a hand and ran it over the internal edge where the mirror met the wood frame. The wood was warm from sitting out in the sunlight, but the glass was ice cold. A shiver ran up my arm. 

“You touch it, you buy it.”

I jumped back. A tired-looking old man was leaning against a table in the tent. Most of his face was covered by an old, navy blue bandana, but his brown eyes stared at me shrewdly.

“Sorry, sir.”

He waved off my “sir” and pushed himself to his feet. He ambled over to inspect the mirror, maintaining a respectable distance. He wore a wide-brim black Stetson and a red, plaid button-down tucked into faded blue Levi’s. I guessed he was the proprietor of the booth; he matched the vibe, tables full of handcrafted leather saddles and riding gear, as well as some stunning landscape paintings of the prairie at sunset. The mirror was definitely out of place with the rest of his merchandise.

“Did you make all of this?”

He shrugged and swept a hand over the display tables in his tent. “Ain’t a lot else for an old cowboy like me to do.” He jerked a short nod at the mirror. “But that ol’ thing, that was my wife’s. Been hangin’ around the house since she passed away last year. I’m ready to be rid of the damn thing.”

His kind eyes went dark, heavy with grief, and he glared at the mirror as if it was personally responsible for his wife's death.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, sir.”

He didn't respond at first. He took off his cowboy hat and ran a hand over short-cropped white hair. He looked up at the sky and heaved a deep sigh. 

“Reckon I’ll join her soon," he muttered under his breath.

I felt a pang in my chest. Here I was, sulking about my own loneliness, but at least I had my youth and health. I could still FaceTime my fiancée any time I wanted. 

"Well I can take this thing off your hands," I smiled, gesturing at the mirror. "How much?"

The old man refocused his attention on me. "What?" he asked, voice sharp and eyes narrowed.

His reaction took me off guard. "I- I like antiques, I mean." I wrung my hands. "I think this would look great in my condo."

His expression softened, but his eyes were still strange. It was hard to read the emotion there.

"Right, right," he said, slowly, looking around the rest of his tent. "You sure you want that old, gaudy thing? What about one of the paintings instead?” He laughed, breathless and a little manic, and wiped the palms of his hands on his denim-clad thighs. “A beautiful girl like you deserves something beautiful in her home, after all."

It was a clumsy attempt at flattery, but I smiled graciously all the same. I started to wonder if he wasn't as ready to let go of this last memory of his wife as he originally claimed.

"Sir- or, what's your name?" 

"George."

"Hi George, I'm Shawn." I had to physically resist the urge to reach out for a handshake. "I really do love this old mirror, so please don't think I'm just trying to do you a favor. If you're ready to part with it, I would really love to buy it from you." 

My eyes slid back to the old wood and cool glass, and I was a bit startled to realize I truly did love it. I wiggled my toes just to watch my nail polish sparkle in the reflection. I suddenly - desperately - needed to have it.  I shook off the odd feeling and met George's eyes once more. He looked concerned.

More than that, he looked sad.

"Irma loved that mirror too." He touched a corner of the frame. "And if you're anything like her, I'm sure you have to have it."

I was a bit unnerved by how close he was to my internal monologue, but I tried not to show it. I smiled brightly behind my mask and nodded.

"I guess Irma and I have similar taste," I said, trying to lighten the mood. 

His expression didn't change. "I guess you do." He heaved a heavy sigh and looked back up at me. "It's all yours."

I started to pull out my wallet, and he reached out a hand to stop me. He stopped short, catching himself, and waved me off instead. "No, no. Don’ want any money for it. I should be paying you, really."

I laughed, sure he was joking. He didn’t even smile.

"Are you sure? It looks expensive."

He huffed, dry and humorless. "You have no idea."

George offered to carry the mirror to my car; the deal settled, he seemed in a rush to get me out of his tent. I declined his offer, less than eager to make small talk all the way back to the parking lot. There was nothing wrong with him, but once I had decided to take the mirror our interaction had become stilted and awkward.  I had to stop a few times to catch my breath, but I managed, at last, to heave the large frame into the back of my Subaru. 

As soon as I got home, I lugged it up the stairs to my third-floor condo and set about hanging it up. I can’t explain why I was so excited to install it. I suppose I had been looking for something with a little more character to replace the aluminum, builder’s-grade mirror in the master bathroom, but I felt a sense of urgency buzzing under my skin. My own voice in the back of my head whispered about how beautiful it was, how wonderful it would look on my pastel blue wall.

I wrestled with my cheap IKEA power drill and broke a handful of plastic wall anchors trying to hang the massive thing without ripping apart the drywall. It was a close call, but after several hours I eventually managed it. You could only tell it was crooked if you tilted your head and squinted. 

I immediately FaceTimed my fiancée, Elena, proud of my handywoman skills. She laughed out loud when she saw it. 

“Shawn, babe. It certainly makes a statement.”

I grinned proudly.

“Isn’t it a monstrosity? I was just so tired of looking at the chipped edges of that old piece of garbage they had up before.”

“Fair enough,” she laughed again, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. “I’m just glad you didn’t put a hole in the wall.”

“Well you haven’t seen behind it.” I grinned when that sent her giggling. She launched into a story about the last time I tried to repair something in her apartment. I’d heard it before - I was there - and I found myself zoning out as I studied my reflection. My teeth looked extra white in the mirror, my lips redder and fuller, cheeks rosier than usual; my hair was much more artfully styled than I remembered it being that morning. I stretched out a hand to touch the glass-

“-Shawn? Are you even listening to me?” 

I snapped my eyes back to my phone screen. I looked at the call time and was shocked to see that over 5 minutes had passed.

“Yeah, of course!” Elena frowned, unimpressed, so I opted for the truth. “Actually, no. Sorry, El. I kinda zoned out.”

Her brow furrowed. 

“Shawn...I know you said you’re OK on your own, but if you want me to go ahead and move out there early, we could try to hide it from my family--”

“No, no!” I cut her off before she could go too far with that train of thought. I smiled at her, reassuring. “I’ll be fine, promise. Just a few more months until the big day, right?” 

She didn’t seem convinced, but she let it drop. “If you say so. You know I’m always just a phone call away.”

“I know, babe.” I looked at the clock. I had a shift in 5 minutes. “I have to go - I love you, future Mrs. Lopez-Wiśniewski.”

She laughed brightly. “Alright, future Mrs. Lo-Wis. Love you too.”

My shift felt endless. My office was in the room across the hall from the master bedroom, and I couldn’t see the mirror even if I wanted to. And I did want to. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Was I imagining things, or did I actually look better in its reflection compared to the old one? I got chastised a couple of times for failing to answer management’s questions during our team meeting, but my mind continued to drift.

Before bed, I pulled the old rectangular mirror out from the hall closet where I’d stashed it. My reflection seemed flat, lifeless. I shoved it back behind a bag of old clothes bound for Goodwill.

Biting my lip, I went back into the master bathroom. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly. I stared at my reflection.

It wasn’t my imagination. It was like the world in the mirror was shot in beauty mode. My features appeared softer, more delicate and feminine than in the other mirror. There had to be something special about its design. I grabbed my desk chair from the office and rolled it into the bathroom, determined to study the glass more closely and find the mechanism that made it work. 

I settled in and stared at myself. My nose, which I’ve always found lumpy and awkward, definitely appeared smaller, curved elegantly to a rosy point. I hadn’t plucked my eyebrows in weeks, but they looked clean and refined. I arched one and let out a delighted laugh at the elegant picture it made. There was no sign of my usual acne scars; in fact, I couldn’t see a single blemish, even though I was sure I’d seen an emerging zit that same morning.

What had started out as a quest to find the mirror’s secret, whatever trick allowed it to paint such a pretty picture of its subject, had quickly devolved into an exercise in vanity. I tilted my head from one side to another and preened. 

My shoulders looked decidedly less blocky and curved delicately into a long, graceful neck. My eyes were absolutely stunning: they looked a much brighter blue than usual, vivid, twinkling conspiratorially. My mouth was curved in a small, sly grin. If I kept staring, the quirk of my lips said, I could become the woman in my reflection. After all, the woman in the mirror was me, if an idealized version. The more I studied my reflection, that whispering voice in my head promised, the more I would become like her. I just needed to keep staring into those sparkling blue eyes…

My head cracking against the quartz of the bathroom counter jolted me back to reality. 

“Ffffuck.” 

I gingerly touched my fingertips to the knot growing on my temple. The lighting in the bathroom seemed brighter, and I blinked against it for a while before I realized that sunlight was streaming in through the window. Alarmed, I checked the clock on my phone. My battery was nearly dead, and it was 10 a.m. 

Twelve hours had passed. I had slept through my morning shift. 

“Shit!” I stumbled out of the chair and wheeled it back into my office. Several angry emails awaited me from my boss. I shot off a quick message that I had hit my head that morning and must have passed out, which didn’t seem too far from the truth. 

I grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and plopped down on the living room couch, plugging in my phone. I frowned up at the ceiling; when had I fallen asleep? I didn’t remember dreaming anything. The last thing I was aware of before my face crashed into the countertop was staring into my own mirror-enhanced eyes.

Maybe Elena was right, I thought. I’ve been spending too much time alone. 

As if on cue, my phone rang in my hand. My fiancée’s worried face popped up on the screen.

“Shawn? Babe, are you okay?”

Shit. I had missed our morning call.

"Sorry, El. I overslept and whacked my head on the bathroom counter in my rush for work. Totally spaced on texting you.."

My stomach squirmed at the lie. I don't know why I didn't just tell her the truth. Something inside me told me it would be a bad idea. I didn't want her to worry.

So much for that.

The rest of the call went...poorly. I was short with her, snappish. It wasn’t fair at all - she just wanted to make sure I wasn't hurt. But my mind was focused on getting to the bottom of the mirror mystery. My head pulsed angrily while she rambled on about hospitals and catching a flight to come see me. Hurt flashed across her features when I told her not to bother, that I didn’t need a babysitter. I don’t really remember how we left things. I just know at some point I couldn’t stand her growing look of concern, so I hung up on her and turned off the phone. 

Cautiously, I went back into the bathroom, approaching the mirror slowly, as if it might lash out at any sudden movement.  I turned off the fluorescent overhead lights, too bright for my pounding headache. Taking a deep breath, I faced my reflection once more.

Even in the dim late-morning light filtering through the blinds, the mirror’s effects were still firmly in place. I studied my reflection again, determined not to lose myself in it like before. Even though I had never felt grumpier, I could swear that my reflection’s lips were still curled up in a small, self-satisfied smile. Scowling, I flipped myself the bird, stormed back into my bedroom, and collapsed face-down on my mattress.

When I woke up, it was almost midnight. I should have gone to check my work email, but I wasn’t looking forward to the verbal lashing I knew awaited me for missing yet another shift. I would deal with that - and the fallout with Elena - in the morning. I started to turn over and go back to sleep, but I caught movement in the bathroom in the corner of my eye.

I sat up straight in bed. There was a figure standing on the other side of my bathroom vanity. 

In the mirror. 

Terror gripped my throat, and I clutched the comforter closer to my chest as if it could protect me. I squinted into the darkness, trying to get a better look.

It was me.

My mirror image was grinning widely, sharp teeth gleaming in the moonlight. The smile didn’t reach its cold, hard stare. There was a cruel set to its brow, head tilted to one side, studying my cowering form on the bed with pitying disdain.  My reflection opened its mouth.

“Where did you go, Shawn.?” The thing in the mirror spoke in my voice, a cheery sing-song, but it echoed strangely off the tiled walls.  

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the image away. I opened them to find my own face, terrifyingly beautiful in the moonlight, inches away from my own. The stench of rot invaded my nostrils.

“Show me that pretty face,” it growled, deep and inhuman.

I woke up screaming, my clothes and sheets drenched in sweat. Sunrise poured in through the windows; I still hadn’t gotten around to hanging my curtains. Birds chirped cheerily in the trees outside. I gasped for breath, feeling like I’d just sprinted a mile.

My head still ached fiercely, and my own distorted voice echoed in my ears. I turned to look at my bathroom. The mirror looked innocuous in the morning light.

I laughed at myself and tried to shrug off the nightmare. I got ready in the hall bathroom, though.

As expected, my boss was pissed at me for being a no-show the day before, but she softened when I went into further detail about my head injury - leaving out the lost time and the strange dream, of course. She was even kind enough to offer me the day off. The throbbing in my temple wanted me to say yes, but I refused. If I didn’t work, I would have to call Elena, and I still had no explanation for why I was such an ass to her the day before. I did send her a short text before I settled in for work:

Sorry baby. I was having a shit day, and I took it out on you. Busy catching up on work, but we’ll talk later, yeah?

She immediately tried to call me. Heart sinking with guilt, I put the phone on silent. 

The rest of the day was uneventful, but it was also unproductive. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the sense of dread that had followed me out of my nightmare. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as if somebody was watching me. I stopped checking after the first few times and tried to focus.

I had to work several extra hours to get all my work done, and by early evening I was completely wiped out. I started to flip over my phone to see if Elena had called or texted again, but pulled my hand back at the last second. I was just too goddamn tired to face it. I got ready for bed in the hall bathroom, and I shut the door to the master bathroom before going to sleep.

It seemed like I had barely closed my eyes when a cold breeze blew across my face, rustling my hair. Refusing to give in to my newfound paranoia, I squeezed my eyes shut and refused to look for the source.

A beat. Then, my own voice whispered directly in my ear, hot, humid breath gusting over the shell: 

“Show me that pretty face.”

With a yelp, I shot upright in bed and turned toward the bathroom door.

It was standing wide open.

Fuck. That.

I scrambled out of bed and marched straight to the closet for my toolbox. Maybe I was losing it, maybe the loneliness was starting to get to me and I was imagining things, but I was beginning to think that the old man's warning wasn't just because the mirror was heavy and old. 

I steeled myself and stepped once more into my master bathroom. I reached up to grasp the mirror’s heavy frame when something caught my eye.

For the most part, my reflection was still as beautiful as it had been the first time I saw it. But on my forehead, almost to my temple, a blotchy red lump pulsed where I had whacked my head on the counter. It hadn’t been there when I went to bed the night before. I poked and prodded at it for a couple of minutes; the area felt bruised under my fingertips, but it didn't seem as pronounced as the bump looked in my reflection. 

I pressed on it gently, and something moved.

I shrieked and jumped back, palm pressed tightly over the bump. My reflection seemed to be smiling again, head tilted slightly enough that it could have just been my imagination. 

I stepped closer to the mirror and removed my hand. The spot seemed to be growing, wriggling and pulsing in time with my heartbeat, even though I couldn’t feel it when I pressed on it with my fingers.

Panic caused my breath to come in short bursts. Should I call a doctor? 

Before I could follow that sensible plan of action, movement in my reflection brought me up short. Astonished, I watched as my hand reached into the vanity drawer out of frame.

When it reappeared, a pair of gleaming nail scissors were held in its grasp.

I looked down and was shocked to see the scissors in my own hand. I felt like I was no longer in control of my own body. The spot on my head jumped beneath my skin. Something sick turned over in my stomach.

With a sudden clarity, I knew what I had to do.

My hand was trembling as it reached for the spot with the scissors, but in the reflection it was steady. I pressed the point of my scissors into the center of the lump, and was shocked and relieved when it didn’t hurt. I pressed in hard, until I felt the skin give way. I spread my fingers and opened the blades, spreading the hole wider. Something hot and viscous dripped down my temple, clouding my vision red, but my reflection was clean and bloodless. I drew my hand away and could see perfect, poreless skin peeking out through the tiny hole I had made. 

I dropped the scissors into the sink and was shocked to see bright red drops scatter over the porcelain. The liquid coated my fingers, slippery and thick. As I stared, pain started to build in my temple, increasing exponentially with each passing second. I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. In a panic, I snapped my eyes back up to the mirror.

The pain disappeared once more. My face in the mirror was smiling at me kindly. The untouched stretch of skin over my cheekbone, a few inches below the hole I had made, started to wriggle and pulse like the lump before. A calm settled over my heaving chest and shaking hands, quelling the growing panic in my mind.

I watched in horror as my fingers pinched the skin on each side of the hole and pulled. 

My skin tore apart like wet paper, more of that flawless visage revealed. I dug my fingers into the flesh, hands eager to remove the writhing, blemished mass hiding the picture-perfect face below. Each time I thought I had caught up to the wriggling mass worming its way under my skin, it moved just a little bit farther, and my skin ripped just a little bit more.

Distantly, I could feel that the flesh under my fingertips was slippery, something warm dripping down my hand and into my shirtsleeve. But those beautiful blue eyes in the mirror compelled me to continue, and I was powerless to resist.

I was almost halfway across the bridge of my nose when my movements faltered. The uncovered half of my face shone with an ethereal sort of beauty. The figure in the mirror nodded in encouragement. I dug my fingers under the unpeeled edge and started to pry it up.

I heard the sound of a key in the lock, but I was too engrossed in my task to pay attention. The edge of the skin over my nose was stubborn, but it finally gave way with a satisfying sucking sound.

“Shawn?” Elena’s voice drifted dreamlike down the hall. “Shawn - SHAWN!”

The air in the bathroom seemed to snap, and I sucked in a breath and turned toward the door. Elena was staring at me in horror, one hand over her mouth like she was trying not to retch. I looked down and saw that my hands and shirt were covered in blood that was still sluicing down my chin. 

And just like that, the pain set in again. My face felt like it was on fire. I collapsed to my knees. Something squishy padded my fall. I lifted my knee up as if in a trance.

Staring back up at me was the bloodied, formless half of my own face. 

I vomited, and everything went dark.

I’m in the hospital now. I was heavily sedated for a few days, and I’m still on a heavy cocktail of painkillers, but at least they removed the wrist straps and let me have my phone. Elena is sitting in a chair in the corner; she hasn’t stopped crying since she found me, though she’s trying to hide it. I don’t know why she’s still here, after what she’s seen, but I’m grateful that she hasn’t abandoned me. Yet, at least. She can barely look at me, so the darker part of me figures it’s only a matter of time. 

The doctors managed to stop the bleeding and stabilize me. They’ve placed a thick colloidal dressing over the peeled side of my face. They said the plastic surgeon will be in tomorrow for a consult, but I can tell there won’t be much they can do. The nurses’ eyes are all pitying, but the twist of their mouths screams disgust. 

To be fair, I’m pretty disgusted with myself. Just before I collapsed, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the mangled remains of my face, slick sinew and red meat, one eye spinning wildly in its socket, lidless and grotesque. 

I didn’t get a good look at the untouched half, but I could tell that under the rippling skin, one once-beautiful eye had turned hard with fury.

I asked Elena yesterday to have a contractor come pull the mirror down and discard it. She didn’t even question it, just told me in her soft, sad voice that it would be done. She didn’t even flinch when I asked her to cover the mirror on the other side of my hospital room.

Because the thing is… I think getting rid of the antique mirror might be too little, too late. When I woke up from the anesthesia, behind the solemn-faced surgeon and a crying Elena holding my hand, I could see another figure standing in the room’s mirror just beyond the foot of my bed, palms pressed against the glass on the other side. 

My grotesque reflection grinned at me, one half of her face glowing with a terrifying beauty, the other half covered by a mask of rippling, writhing flesh, begging to be peeled at the corners. 

Her lips moved, and it sounded like she was whispering right in my ear. Even with the mirror covered, at night that discordant, growling approximation of my voice echoes in my head.

“C’mon Shawn. Show me that pretty face.”