Edited 3: The Mirror
Vocabulary Word: torpor
He came by often.
At first it was just to pause and brush back a wayward strand of unruly blond hair. Then he began lingering longer and longer in the hallway, always to admire. Some days he would lean in close enough for his nose to touch the glass, looking for any sign of imperfection. Most would figure he was looking for a pimple or some hair that he, in his prepubescence, longed to arrive.
But his reflection knew the truth. He loathed what it revealed, and yet he hung onto the truth of his reflection. Ofttimes he would linger, primping and pruning. Others he would detest what he saw and turn away in a huff, forcing his reflection to follow.
And recently he began staring longer. He would flex and wave just to see his reflection do the same--if he could not control his life then what fun and joy it was to control that one thing. It was him and it was not him; he could move it in the ways he felt everyone else moved him. And then he would talk, spill his deepest secrets and desires. Because nothing was ever good enough: not enough muscle, not enough stoic face, not enough tan.
It broke his heart to see such things, especially the ways in which his reflection's eyes filled with torpor. And he knew. Those eyes were the only thing he could always see and see well, they never changed through the years. He wished he could do something, anything to remove that outlook, the torpor. Yet when he tried to reach out to touch the glass, to let his reflection know he had someone who cared, the glass shattered instead.
And he was left with bloody knuckles.
He came by often.
At first it was just to pause and brush back a wayward strand of unruly blond hair. Then he began lingering longer and longer in the hallway, always to admire. Some days he would lean in close enough for his nose to touch the glass, looking for any sign of imperfection. Most would figure he was looking for a pimple or some hair that he, in his prepubescence, longed to arrive.
But his reflection knew the truth. He loathed what it revealed, and yet he hung onto the truth of his reflection. Ofttimes he would linger, primping and pruning. Others he would detest what he saw and turn away in a huff, forcing his reflection to follow.
And recently he began staring longer. He would flex and wave just to see his reflection do the same--if he could not control his life then what fun and joy it was to control that one thing. It was him and it was not him; he could move it in the ways he felt everyone else moved him. And then he would talk, spill his deepest secrets and desires. Because nothing was ever good enough: not enough muscle, not enough stoic face, not enough tan.
It broke his heart to see such things, especially the ways in which his reflection's eyes filled with torpor. And he knew. Those eyes were the only thing he could always see and see well, they never changed through the years. He wished he could do something, anything to remove that outlook, the torpor. Yet when he tried to reach out to touch the glass, to let his reflection know he had someone who cared, the glass shattered instead.
And he was left with bloody knuckles.