A Mirror of Yourself

I stood against her wall every day, never moving, unwavering. I saw everything, knew everything, but I was never acknowledged. She would stare at me at least twice a day, if not more, but never truly at me. Only through me. She didn’t realize what I paid attention to, that I saw through her just as much as she did me. She didn’t know how much my reflective surface showed.

To the outer world, she was perfect. Perfect long black hair, always straightened, not a strand out of place. Perfectly golden skin, fake or real, only time would tell. Freckles danced across her high cheekbones, the bridge of her Roman nose, and the curve of her shoulders. She had pearl white teeth, the perfect smile. Sharp eyebrows like they were carved. Big, doe green eyes, not too bright, not too dull. Just enough to think she must have innocent wonder about the world. They couldn’t see what I could see.

They couldn’t see that each morning and each night, every time she got ready, brushed her teeth, tried on an outfit, the effort she was putting in. The care for every detail. The way she would practice her beauty pageant smile. Testing the limits of how far her cheeks could reach. How far could they stretch until they hurt too much? How little? They never reached her eyes, the smiles. But her eyes were alluring enough to trick people into thinking they did. They didn’t see every time she shed a tear while doing her makeup. They didn’t see how she would pull out all the out-of-place strands of hair. How she waxed every hair off her face until it burned. The way her eyes would twitch with every fault, every flaw she could spot. If she was frustrated enough, she would riffle through her room with rage. What she was looking for, I didn’t know. After each time, though, she would spend hours cleaning it back up, making sure every object was back in its exact spot. She was a perfectionist to a fault. A people pleaser.

No one saw each time she brought home a guy, a friend, anyone. How she put on a different perfected personality for each one, but still got rejected. The world wanted her, but they didn’t truly want her. They wanted what they thought she was, but they couldn’t handle it when the doors locked and the lights turned off. She wasn’t what they saw.

I watched over her every day and every night. Watched every time she cried and never saw her true smile. I watched her as a child. Watched her as she grew up, and as she moved out and took me with her. Yet I can’t recall when the happy, pleased child turned into this.

I couldn’t understand the scene before me. The torment.

I wanted to scream, “Stop! Stop! What are you doing? Tessa!” but I had no voice. I’ve never had a voice, no matter how many times I’ve wanted to speak up.

Tessa stands before me. She still looks perfect. Perfect hair. Perfect face. The perfect smile, but now there’s a crack. Her cheeks have surpassed their limits. It reached her eyes, but in an unsettling way. She stood before me in her typical date night outfit. Her shoes were off, but she still had on the silky, creamy slip dress with an empress waistline. It sat right above the knee, elongating her already long legs. Thick straps that allowed her pearl necklace to stand out. Dainty.

Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.

Except, there’s a new accessory. A few new accessories. Instead of the matching cream Chanel handbag, she held a bloody knife.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

And instead of being doused in Tom Ford Lost Cherry perfume, she was covered in blood.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I try to recall the events earlier in the evening.

Tessa came home from the hospital early.

I remember years ago, the long nights she would spend studying on the floor of her bedroom. I would watch her highlight endlessly, preparing for her MCAT. Her hair was askew, strands sticking out at all angles. She threatened to pull them all out with her drugstore tweezers, which were all she could afford then, but was too determined to get through her notes first. She would scratch at her forearms endlessly, following with lotion upon lotion.

She came home, tired, but with an excited energy. She kicked off her non-slip sneakers and took her hair down from her bun. She let out an exhausted sigh before rubbing her face and heading for the shower. I couldn’t see, but I could hear her singing along to that song about walking on sunshine, she plays on repeat. She was getting ready for a date. She doesn’t normally go out after a shift, but then again, she came home early, which she also never did.

She came back into the room, towel wrapped, and hair dried. She normally would’ve washed it, but her hair would look perfect whether she did or didn’t. She sauntered off towards her closet, still humming along, and began pulling out dresses. She laid them out in front of her, studying them thoroughly. She always paid very close attention to detail. One thread pulled, that dress would be donated. A small, harmless stain, it’ll be scrubbed until her fingers bled. Nothing could be out of place, and nothing ever was. She tried on the black dress first, the one with the thin straps and a long, flowy skirt. She swayed in front of me, twirling the skirt. Her face contorted; she didn’t like how the length made her look short. She then tried on the hot pink, strapless dress. She instantly frowned and took it off immediately. She only wore that one if she was planning on getting drunk. That usually never happened on a date because that would only happen after a terrible day. Today couldn’t have been a terrible day. Finally, she put on the cream slip dress, and her face lit up. She turned in front of me, from side to side. She smoothed the skirt down her hips, making sure it fit perfectly. She was satisfied.

Then she started on her makeup. She didn’t have much to do other than fix it up from the long day. Despite how most people would put in less effort for a long shift, she had the perfect makeup each and every day. She sat in front of me, examining her face closely. She checked each freckle and each eyebrow hair to determine what needed to be fixed. She grabbed her eyebrow brush and straightened the strands before applying a gel. She looked at her eyes next. She stared deeply into her own eyes, making sure they were perfectly bright. She began to apply a gold eyeshadow, delicately sweeping the brush across her lip. She grabbed her eyeliner and applied a wing to the edges of her eyelid. When she had finished both, she looked at herself head-on and frowned. She had determined that they were not even enough. She put some of her Micellar remover on a Q-Tip and rubbed off each wing, and began to apply it again. She checked their evenness and grew more frustrated. Her skin was beginning to turn red. She applied the wings once more, finally determining that they were sufficient. She sprayed her face and applied a clear gloss on her plump lips.

She stood and twirled two more times before grabbing her shoes, spraying her Tom Ford perfume, and heading out the door.

There wasn’t a single detail that was out of the norm, other than coming home early. She seemed perfect. The same old perfectionist Tessa.

She was gone for hours; usually, that meant it had gone well, whoever she was seeing. That was confirmed when she came home holding a man's hand. He seemed unusual for her. He wasn’t the tallest of the bunch, and with Tessa being five foot seven – I remember her scolding herself about this in front of me. It was hard to find a man who was suitable in height for her expectations. He certainly did not meet past standards, standing only a few inches taller. She also tended to go with more muscular men, that’s not to say that this man wasn’t, but he was certainly leaner. The rest of his features were on track, however. Dark curly hair, light blue eyes, a kind smile, and a strong nose and jaw, and he was undoubtedly smitten with Tessa.

Maybe that should’ve been the red flag. Tessa rarely brought someone home who didn’t fit her expectations to a tee, and those whom she did bring home were almost never visibly smitten.

I couldn’t have guessed what she was up to at the time, though. I thought she had finally found someone who was worthy of her, who understood her. Oh, how I was wrong. I should have seen the signs. This had happened with past owners of mine, but I was always too late to tell. I should have recognized the patterns, but I had been with Tessa for so long that I had forgotten it was a possibility.

Why does this keep happening?

Tessa led this man to her bedroom, hand in hand, with a perfect smile plastered on her face. She turned around to face him and got on her toes, certainly an illusion to make this man feel taller, and kissed him. She kissed him deeply and kissed her back, holding a firm grip on her waist. She dangled her arms around his neck and lifted one foot off the floor like she was in a movie.

But there was something in her hand, something shiny. Her lipstick, I thought of first. She certainly had an expensive lipstick that had a shiny silver casing. But she ran out of that one over a month ago. I was too busy deducting what it could be when I was already too late.

I tried to scream. I tried to stop her, but she couldn’t hear me. They never heard me when I spoke.

Unsuspecting of the man, when she brought her arms back around in front of him, she took that shiny object and slit his throat. He couldn’t do much to stop it. He tried clawing at her, he tried stopping the bleeding, but she was a doctor. She knew exactly where to cut to make the wound fatal. But it didn’t stop there. When he fell to the ground, she began stabbing him.

Blood splattered everywhere. All over her perfect room. Her perfect dress. Her hair. Her arms. Her face...

Her face was the worst of it. She looked happier than I had ever seen her, her smile finally perfect. She cursed some words at him. Something about, “You asshole!” and “You know what you did!”

I’ve never seen this of Tessa before, never suspected it.

She stood in front of me, admiring herself in the mirror, the man on the ground behind her, unmoving like me.

She adjusted her hair, smoothed her skirt, and continued smiling. She placed the bloodied knife on her nightstand and reached for something behind me. I knew nearly everything about Tessa. About her life, and certainly her room. This, I didn’t know about.

She brought the object out in front of her, a paper of sorts. She grabbed a pen and added a tally under a woman’s name. There were a bunch of tally marks on this page, nearly twenty, and all of them associated with a woman’s name. I recognized some of these names. These names belonged to her friends, her coworkers. These are people she has talked about numerous times, has brought in front of me numerous times.

How have I never noticed? Do I not know Tessa?

She walked away from me, unzipping her bloody dress. She was headed to the bathroom, humming that song about sunshine.

Tessa, perfect Tessa.