The rusty bathroom mirror hates her. Every wretched time she glances at it, its shiny surface reveals all her hideous features: her plain, straight hair, her untoned stomach, her acne, her sallow skin. With malicious intent, it hides anything that might make her passably pretty.

This mirror hates her.

And tonight, the thing mocks her mercilessly, conjuring up Lacy in the glass. It knows all her secrets, unburying the one she holds closest against her heart: her pure, unadulterated loathing for Lacy. And now Lacy stares, piercing her soul, unblinking, mimicking her expressions.

No one notices her when they see Lacy—her lively, bouncing curls, her slim figure, her vivacious personality. She sees Lacy, too. She knows Lacy wakes every day at 5:00 a.m. to begin a regimen of curling her hair to make it bounce, painting perfect features on her face so no one sees the blemishes lying insidiously beneath. She knows Lacy follows a strict diet—one paltry plate of dinner nightly, and for the rest of the day? Air.

Lacy’s face of flawlessness makes her practically perfect; she is nothing like her.

Lacy is saccharine, carefully filtering her words. She never just says what she feels: “I hate you.” Instead, she hides behind a fake smile, a fake “you’re so pretty,” a fake “I love your hair.” All these declaratives ring out from her overly bright voice.

Everyone believes Lacy. But she does not. Just say the words, Lacy. Truth would save everyone the trouble of reading between the lines. At least she says things plainly, even though no one wants to listen.

When she told Lacy that she was “lonely, insecure, and craving attention,” she meant every word of it. She wears her heart on her sleeve—Lacy hides behind false compliments. Lacy never shows her anger. She just beams her shining smile, leaving her stewing in a grey cloud of resentment: the quintessential innocent victim to vicious words.

Lacy’s faultless attitude makes her want to ruin that perfect face by introducing it to her fists. So she does, and the mirror cracks, blood ribboning on her knuckles. Pain snakes and spreads like a bloody river over her hand, slow and stinging. She clenches her knuckles and mutes the pain. Dam the river. It’ll scar, but at least Lacy can’t cover this one up.

Last week, a boy—the object of her affection—fell for Lacy's charms instead of hers. He saw his desires in Lacy’s eyes, turning from her entirely. When she approaches him, Lacy stands in her way, guiding him, leading him through an exquisite world of flowers, butterflies, stars, complete with that shimmering waterfall of curls. Both of them leave her languishing in the dust, rootless, parched, with no place in Lacy’s life.

On the surface, she has to applaud Lacy. Lacy certainly wields great power despite having no existence.

Her own parents love Lacy more than they love her. Lacy is ideal, polite, and responsible. Her parents never need to worry for Lacy as they do for her. Lacy never sneaks out, she has perfect grades, and she’s never lied.

Sadly, she can check all these offenses off her own to-do list.

Maybe, just maybe, she thinks, she should try to imitate Lacy. She will be likable. She will be her.

So today she puts on bright, vibrant lipstick, stark against her pale face, and she looks… different. Not herself, but more mature. Yet staring back, mockingly, are the shattered pieces of Lacy’s striking features, applying lipstick with her. These pieces laugh in muted tones at her fruitless attempts. She screams, the lipstick smearing, and Lacy’s reflection shifts into a garish, clown-like sight. It snarls in anger, distorted and grotesque—a far cry from her usual immaculate face. Glee bubbles inside her, and she stares at her handiwork, cackling.

“Lacy! Are you alright?” her mother calls from the stairwell. “I heard something break.”

“I’m alright, Mother, nothing’s happened,” she answers, and for a moment she marvels because she has Lacy’s voice now, those light, cheery tones. She can’t speak truth even if she wants to—escaping from the prison Lacy has created, a perfectly curated life that traps her behind pristine glass, is now impossible.

Because she is Lacy.



Lacy is me.