Mirror mirror on the wall

I remember what my mother used to say after reading a bedtime story, "Mirror, Mirror on the wall who's the fairest of them all?" She would continue saying, "Is it Snowhite?", and I would shake my head in dispute.

"Then who is it then?" she would ask.

I would shout "Me!" She would smile her lips turned up in a grin. But I didn't notice at the time, that the smile did not reach her tired eyes. Little did I know that she could look like the innocent flower I thought she was but be the serpent under it that bit me when I tried to pick the bouquet. After putting me to sleep my mother would talk in hushed tones on the phone. I didn't realise that my identity would change, that my life would be shattered like my reflection in a mirror. I had to learn the hard way; that circumstances alter face, metaphorically and truthfully speaking.

Presently as a geology student in University, I was sitting in the back listening to the professor. He drawled on about how, "Crystals of individual minerals has characteristics polyhedral forms(poly, many: hedron, face).These form-prisms, pyramids, rhombohedron, tetrahedral and many others-are the outward expression of each mineral's internal structure. As a geometrical shape a crystal is bounded by faces, each of which is a polygon, such as a square, triangle etc.".

I already studied most of the concepts so my mind wondered off towards the past, the horror of my childhood. Unconsciously, my hand reached up and my fingers trailed the shape of the scar on my face. I remembered that horrid nigh vividly.

When my mother spoke on the phone, she was speaking to my father and at the time where planning a divorce. As years went on I noticed her beginning to become colder. She never smiled anymore...never read a bed time story after that. That night when I came home after school, I found her heavily drinking as usual. It was because of her alcoholism that I had to look after myself and a grown woman. That night I couldn't take it anymore. I argued telling her things along the lines of leaving her and running away to find my father, if she didn't stop.

She revealed to me that my father was dead and that I was the worst thing to happen to her. I argued with her for a while, not the best thing to do when she was drunk. A bottle smashed the cutting of flesh and screams of pain. Blood dripped everywhere, my eyes filled with it. Now I bring myself to remember that my mother tripped and fell onto glass shards, one managing to evade her ribs and pierce into her dark, cold, hardened heart.

The sounds of books and people shuffling woke me from my daydream. I was supposed to meet my friend April at a café for lunch. April was my only friend and the only one who had seen my face. She was the only one I trusted enough to reveal my face to.

I remembered her exact words, "Wow, honey you're gorgeous! You know you should try to style you're hair away from your face.... and that scar it makes your features look better, sort of mysterious and dangerous". I knew she was just saying that to be nice and when she tried to convince me to look at myself in the mirror I would refuse. We just finished lunch with a little chat about class mainly and separated into ways.

Going back to my apartment I took my prescription pills and consumed them with water. The bathroom mirror and all the mirrors in the house were covered in paper; so that I would not see the face I was ashamed to show anyone even me. Now twenty years of age I had not seen my face in four years. Once considered a 'Snowhite' by my mother now the 'ugly duckling'. One person can be a symbol as in the face of my mother, a symbol of evil, the witch who poisoned the apple. Presently, I realised that I had been living too long in fear, that my face was hideous. I believed it was time to see my face again.

Slowly but painfully strands of paper were ripped from the bathroom mirror, until finally I saw myself. A Snowhite resemblance in every way: red lips, ebony hair, white pale skin...perfect. Save for the scar that cripples my face. It runs down from under my eye to my chin. As I looked at myself I asked again, "Mirror, mirror on the wall who's the fairest of them all?"

But this time I answered, "Not me, not at all."

The sounds of broken glass were heard as blood ran down my hand, knowing that forever my future will be haunted by my identity, my face.

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I wrote this for school. It's supposed to be a short story, however, if anyone whishes me to continue I will increase the length in future. I just have to think of a storyline and plot.

Thank you for reading.