I Am Lucy

I am placed where truth lingers the longest. Not because it is brave enough to stay, but because it has nowhere else to go. Each morning, she stands before me and arranges herself into something acceptable. Shoulders back. Chin lifted. A face practiced enough to pass.

I know the versions she does not keep.

I know the pauses between breaths when the room is still and she forgets to perform. I know the way her eyes soften when she thinks no one is watching, and harden again the moment she remembers me. She believes I only return what I am given. She does not realize I am paying close attention.

On her own schedule, she comes to me daily. I watch her first in the early hours of the morning as she crawls out of bed and stretches. She moves melodically to the curtains to fling them open. Her mouth opens wide as she breathes in a deep yawn. She shuffles around and flips on the light sluggishly. She wraps her polished nails around her hairbrush and rakes it through her dark locks before curling the strands to perfection.

Next she disappears, only to appear once again moments later carrying a steamy mug of black coffee. She then continues her routine and puts on her mask, applying makeup expertly as she has for years to keep up the facade. Cheeks rosy and lips flawlessly made up in red, she goes to her closet for her costume. She dresses slowly, with precise movement.

Finally, she smooths out the cream-colored comforter and rearranges her pillows. Once she is satisfied with her work, she comes back to stand before me.

A deep breath in. A slow breath out.

Without a word, she raises her hand to flick the light switch off once more. Then she is gone.

She’s returned all of her belongings to their original places. The woman with the ghost of a smile strives for control, for perfection.

The woman doesn’t return until the sun sets and casts shades of pink and purple across the room. When she enters, her hair is wet and her face is clean. Sky-blue striped pajamas hug her body as she stands before me again. Nails – still perfectly polished – hold the hairbrush once again. Slowly and steadily she brushes out her hair as she stares into the eyes looking back at her. Carefully she sets the brush down and leaves me once again.

When she returns she carries no coffee. In its place is a glass full to the brim with water. She sets it on her end table carefully before moving to the window to close the curtains. Finally, it’s time for that same light switch again. Off.

One more glance at me, and then she's pulling the corner of her comforter up and sliding in between the sheets. She sinks deep into the mattress and sighs in relief.

The remote sits in her trembling hand, cool and firm, as tears silently stream down her face. The culprit is a television program she watches nightly. It’s one that helps her shed the tears she holds back. She needs it.

She shifts slightly beneath the comforter, pressing the pillows around her just so. Her chest rises and falls with slow, measured breaths, but the tremor in her fingers does not go unnoticed. I see it all.

The remote rests against her palm as she watches the screen, her eyes glistening, unblinking. Every so often, her hand lifts and presses a button, adjusting the volume, a flicker of movement that seems to echo the rhythm of her hidden sorrow. She does not speak. She does not move beyond this space. Yet, in every tiny gesture, I know the weight she carries.

The evening seems to grow quieter as she clicks the television off and returns the remote to her nightstand next to the glass of water, untouched. Her hands linger briefly over the comforter, smoothing it once more as if she can press the day flat and make it lie down beneath her. Then, finally, she tucks herself deeper into the sheets, curling into the space she has claimed.

I silently keep watch over her as she snores softly. The shadows stretch across the walls as the last light fades. The pillows slump slightly, the comforter holds the imprint of her body, and the room simply waits.

I remember everything about the woman; from the faint creases on her skin to the way the sadness seeps from her eyes. When morning comes, I will see her again, and I will know – again – the rituals she performs to remain whole. The room holds her fleeting presence, and I am left with nothing but her reflection and the quiet knowledge of what she hides from herself.

Morning returns. Light seeps through the curtains, pale and patient. She rises as she always does, stretching, moving to the window to open the curtains. She flips on the lightswitch. The day begins as it always begins, or so it seems.

She brushes out the knots in her hair and slicks her hair back into a smooth ponytail, two strands falling perfectly on either side of her face. Continuing with her routine, she begins making up her face as she’s done countless times before. The brush dips into the color, glides over her lips – and then slips.

Red streaks across her skin, imperfect, chaotic. She freezes, staring into me, and I for the first time in countless mornings, notice her pause is not rehearsed.

Her hands tremble as she sets the lipstick aside. She lifts the hairbrush again, too quickly, too forcefully, and it strikes my surface. A sharp crack runs through me, jagged and sudden. The sound hangs in the air.

Tears stream freely now, unrestrained. She wipes the red from her face, each movement precise yet desperate. Makeup is gone. She removes the ponytail restraining her hair and replaces it with a lazier version, more comfortable, just letting the strands fall where they will. Jeans. A simple sweater. She dresses not for perfection, not for the world, but for herself.

She stands before me, bare of the facade she once knew. And then – a smile. Small, real, unpracticed. She meets her own gaze fully, finally. Her voice is soft but firm:

“I am Lucy.”