She looks at me

Hannah K.

As I walk by, I accidentally make eye contact with her. I try to avoid engaging with her, but I can feel the pressure of her attention on the back of my neck. I’m left with no choice but to turn and face her.

She looks at me in silence, her eyes steady but empty. Her face is blank in a carefully practiced manner, as if she’s spent her entire life perfecting the art of indifference. But I know her too well; I can recognize the facade. 

As we stare at one another, I can’t help but pick apart everything that makes her off, that makes her not quite right. Normally I’m not so quick to judge, but with her, the issues jump up at me. Her stomach bulges out against her pants zipper, and her face is blotchy with red bumps. Her chin is round, but not in an elegant way like some girls, rather, like it doesn’t quite know what to do with the extra weight. Her hair is tucked behind her ears and makes them look triple their size; her glasses are askew. She must sense some of my judgement and she hurries to adjust her hair; it does little to remedy the disaster.

I await for some sort of recognition, some sort of compassion from her, but all I get is a cool look of disgust. We look to each other, both searching for comfort that cannot be found, and my eyes begin to prick with tears.

For all my anger, I know she dislikes me all the worst.

All I want is to be loved by her. She knows it too.

“I hate you,” I whisper softly. My voice is the only sound in the silence. 

She frowns then and her eyes squint, but she is unmoving in her stance. 

“I hate you,” I repeat, my voice croaking and stumbling upon the simple syllables. Saying this does little to change our situation; she is still her imposing and unlovable self. 

Perhaps she appears more disgruntled than before, but she stands strong like the arrogant piece of shit she is. 

I reach out with my hand to touch her, and she reluctantly does the same. When our fingertips brush, her hand is cold like ice.

Without moving my hand, I begin to softly chant: “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.” I continue until my words blur into one and my chest is too tight to continue.

Her indifference to me is like a sharpened knife in my heart.

I lower myself to the ground, and she does the same. We lean upon one another, back to back. Her support is not one out of compassion, but instead painful obligation. 

My eyes close shut and tears begin to pour into the deafeningly still room. My nails dig into my legs as I clutch them in closer to myself. 

“I wish we weren’t stuck together,” I say.

Motionless response.

“I wish you were better. There is so much wrong that sometimes I can’t bear to look in your direction.”

She is still unspeaking.

My eyes burn with the downpour of tears and the forceful restraint of sobs.

“I wish I was enough for you.”

I clench my fist and slam it into the floor at the sheer cruelty of this all.

“But I’ll never be enough for you. No matter what I do, I cannot be enough. You and I will never fit, and I’ll never be quite right. I’ll always have something to change because I’m not perfect and you will always be a perfectionist. We will never work.

“I will never work.”

I turn around to face her again, and her composure from before is gone. She is a mess before me, her eyes ruby red and tears like a fountain before me. Her face is past downturned, her lip trembling incessantly. 

She’s always been an ugly crier. 

My fist, still curled from before, reaches and punches her right in her chest. The touch does nothing, her body still as a statue, my fist burning. 

But I do it again.

And again. 

And again.

And my hand vibrates with every hit but I don’t stop. The more I hurt her the more anger I feel. I will not be enough for her, so why should I even try? Why should I care about her?

I keep going and going, my arm shuddering and my sobs echoing in the once silent chamber. Her eyes are hurt, her body is hurt, but she doesn’t strike back.

My vision of her begins to crack and splinter, but I don’t stop.

There’s suddenly a burning sensation and a biting feeling as shards of glass puncture my hand. The blood squirts from the cuts as I push the glass further within them through an accidental flex in my palm. 

I stop moving then, the pause empty from all except my laboured breathing.

I look up to see her face then, but it is long gone with the mirror.