The wall had a patch of peeling paint. No one really noticed it, except me. Everyone continued with their busy lives doing what everyone called the very important things—making money.
I was a sheltered child. Then, I became a very protected woman. What it meant was, I had every comfort one would need and the only discomfort that I had to tolerate was not having a choice. "We know what's best for you," they would say, until the shackles they put me in became an inconvenience for them.
The paint had peeled to the point that the concrete brick began to shown. My husband didn't care when I told him about it. He was busy scrolling through reels of models and actresses. He had stopped hiding it. In fact, he even spoke to his 'colleague' freely over calls in my presence, asking her what gift she wanted for her upcoming birthday.
"Don't make fuss of such little things," my mother said on her weekly call to me.
She used to call me daily, but my husband didn't like his wife still being such a child. My mother-in-law very cheerfully told me at the start of my marriage, "Now, we are your family."
"This is how all men are," she continued. We had this conversation before. "He wants you to get a job and take care of your own expenses, then what's wrong in that? You should be grateful he keeps you with him. He could have left you with his parents instead."
"The paint is peeling on the wall, ma." I stood before the wall, my finger hovering above the grey, pumice like concrete block.
"Don't make it worse then." She sounded irritated. "Go and prepare dinner for your husband. What did your mother-in-law ask you to prepare?"
When I didn't answer, she cut the call.
Paint flakes dropped, puffing dust as they pulled the plaster along.
The clock ticked. The tap dripped. The washing machine sang its ending song.
"Escape?"
My heart skipped. I turned around. No one.
"Escape?" The voice asked again.
"Escape?" It grew stronger, familiar. I looked around and then turned to the mirror.
My reflection. Happy, content. The wall wasn't chipping on that side.
I walked to it quickly.
I looked from the chipping wall behind me and then back to the reflection. On closer observation, the reflection didn't seem accurate. The leaves of the potted plant didn't have dust settled on them. The crooked leg of the table was smooth and shiny. Even the paint was warm and inviting. There was a glow of setting sun, while I was in an eerie evening gloom.
Her eyes were kind and full of life. There was no darkness around them. Her clothes looked colourful, though we were in the exact same clothes. And she smiled. I couldn't remember the last time I smiled so beautifully, freely.
She extended her hand to me, curling amd uncurling her fingers in invitation.
"Yes." I took her hand.
The pull was sudden. At first I regretted it. It felt like I was drowing. It was hard to see in the ripples of silver. 'Maybe this was how everything ends for good,' I told myself.
Then my lungs filled with air, and my hands planted on soft carpet. My throat burned and my eyes cried. When I looked up in the mirror, my reflection was on the other side. The paint was chipping on the wall behind her.
But she glowed with life even in that darkness.
The bell rang, and panic took over me. I hadn't made dinner yet. My hands shook as I reached for the door knob.
"My beautiful wife," my husband said as he pulled me into a hug.
My heart thumped viciously. What was he going to do now? Why was he being affectionate?
"For you," he said, handing me a bouquet of wild flowers. "Happy birthday, my dearest, loveliest wife."
He hadn't celebrated my birthday in our five-year marriage before. It scared me.
"Are you not feeling well?" There was concern on his face for me.
"I, I didn't prepare dinner yet," I confessed.
He scrunched his face in confusion. "Why would you on your birthday? Besides, its Friday and Fridays I cook, remember?"
I was confused.
"You look feverish. You better rest."
He helped me back to our bedroom and into the bed.
"You don't worry about a thing," he said as he left to prepare my birthday meal.
Once he was gone I rushed to the mirror. She was there smiling and beautiful. I was nothing like her.
"Where am I?"
My reflection copied me and didn't answer.
She only smiled. The wall behind her chipped a lot more now.
I found a bedsheet and covered the mirror.
The birthday meal was delicious. My husband didn't let me wash the dishes and spoke to me about things I liked while he did them.
The next day my mother called me, thanking me for the wonderful gifts my husband had sent her. She told me dad and her were going on a cruise holiday along with my in-laws. My father-in-law had lost a bet this time, so it was his treat.
For lunch that day, I tried out a new recipe. My husband had stopped by and praised my cooking. He promised to get a tub of chocolate ice cream for our movie night. It was his turn to choose a movie and I was simply happy.
This new life was beautiful.
I lived in this new world where everyone acknowledged my existence and truly wanted to know what I wanted.
For three days, I didn't look at the mirror. I was happy here.
But my curiosity got the best of me on the fourth day. My husband was at work and would be returning late in the evening. Tomorrow we were going to Bali for our anniversary.
When I pulled the sheet off the mirror, things had changed. My reflection was still smiling, but with blood smeared on her face, blood splatter on the chipped wall behind her. Her eyes white, colourless.
My heart didn't flutter with fear. I found myself reflecting her smile before I shattered the mirror with the bloodied knife I held.
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