Every element of beauty, every worshipped work of art, every eye’s paradise was a lie.
The truth was clearer to none but Lily Mensonge. With a stubby pencil permanently tucked between her fingers, she discovered long ago the lies mirrors spat at their beholders. The duration of her years had been spent dodging bullets in the form of fake smiles and forced compliments. Beauty was little more than a game, played by manipulative pawns and judged by the unforgiving hands of fate. The poor, star-crossed souls who lost were barely given a moment to gather their wits before they were cast to the darks shadows with the other forgotten ones.
As pellets of rain beat against her bedroom window, Lily’s pencil scratched at the surface of a worn sheet of paper. A dark line curved across the page, forming the slant of a chin. The skin of her chin quivered in unison. She ground her teeth together and focused on the sketch.
The outline of a girl’s delicate features spanned the page. Soft, gentle curls twisted together sat in a bun on the crown of her head. Her smile was brief, barely gracing her lips with its presence. It was nearly perfect. The only marring factor was a slight tilt to the left eye. The front corner tipped too far toward the freckled nose, upsetting the dynamic of the face.
Flipping the pencil over in her grip, Lily scrubbed the eraser against the eye. Her vision shifted with the expunging of the feature. She brushed a hand against her face. Instead of being met with an eyelid and a thick layer of lashes, the fingertips landed on a smooth patch of skin.
Her gaze flickered between the paper and the circular mirror above her desk. The pencil pressed against the drawing, its lead sloping into the gentle curve of an eye. An identical arch appeared on the previously smooth patch of skin diagonal to the tip of her nose. Threads of skin patched together, leaving a daunting black socket in its center. A timid green eye peered through.
Lily settled back in her chair. She held the sketch up to the poignant light of her desk lamp. It was a perfect representation of her—the same curls framing her forehead, the same parted, thick lips, the same light dusting of freckles. It was the perfect representation of perfection.
The ability to recreate herself into someone beautiful, someone worthwhile, came to Lily at a young age. Her childhood figure was as if someone in the stars decided to play a cruel joke on humanity. She was too pasty, too crooked, too gangly. Her only friends were the tearstained drawings balanced in her lap in the schoolyard.
Some would’ve called it a mistake to play with her grandmother’s potions in the back of her kitchen. Lily considered it a blessing. It gave her the one thing she had ever longed for, contained in a frothing pink solution bottled in a glass jar. It gave her beauty, popularity, perfection, an ideal trio said to last until her artwork had been destroyed.
The door to her bedroom swung open. Lily scrambled to cover her drawing as her sister Ella stormed across the room. Tears streamed down Ella’s freckled cheeks. The side of her fist scrubbed at her blue eyes. She shoved back Lily’s chair, folding her arms over her heaving chest. “I can’t do this with you anymore.”
Lily pressed her lips together. She scooted her chair back into place. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m busy right now.”
“Of course you do.” Ella ripped the pencil out of her hand and flung it across the carpet. “I’m tired of this act. I’m tired of you shutting me out. I needed you today at the funeral, and you turned your back on me. I don’t know what happened to you. Don’t you care about anyone besides your mirror?”
Lily hesitated. She shook her head. “I don’t know what you expect me to say. I don’t have time for this.”
Pushing her sister’s arms aside, Ella raised the sketch book off the desk. She tore out Lily’s self-portrait. Her fingers quivered as she studied the gray markings. “That’s the problem. You don’t have time.” At an antagonizing pace, she split the paper down the middle.
Lily shot to her feet, crying out. She reached for Ella. “Stop!”
Ella jerked away. “You spend all your time being artistic Lily, funny Lily, beautiful Lily, never sister Lily or kind Lily. You traded that for vain, lying, perfect Lily.” The drawing fell the pieces at Ella’s feet.
Lily spun away from her sister. She clutched her face; blood oozed from the fresh cracks in its surface, dripping down her wrists in rivers of crimson. Chunks of skin stuck to the pads of her fingers. Her gaze drifted to the mirror. She was a grotesque puzzle, torn apart and left to bleed.
Reality had finally caught up to her. Perfect Lily was gone.