True Love of Coffee

Into the Looking Glass – Prelude, Part II – A Model Life

Posted on 30. Aug, 2006 by Barry Hurd in Creative Writing, The Looking Glass

I couldn’t believe things had gotten so bad so quickly. Stephen had told me things would get worse, but I simply never imagined it would come to this. I told myself that it was all for the better, that this was the duty I swore to.No one, perhaps save a few, would ever understand how sane my actions were.

‘For better or worse’, those were the words people used these days. I don’t think they could comprehend exactly what they meant. I guess they really didn’t need to. Who would have thought that someone like me would end up with such an enduring relationship? Not me, that’s for sure. Before this roller coaster of events started I couldn’t even keep a relationship going for three months.

I broke away from my thoughts for a moment and I looked into the mirror at a face I barely recognized. The short hair, the petite nose, and my blue eyes surrounded in black eye-liner. Everything seemed like I was wearing a mask and my eyes were the only thing that felt familiar, the only thing in the mirror that I realized were my own. I knew that there was a huge chance I was insane, aren’t we all, but deep down I knew that I was doing everything right. It just felt like the weight of the world was resting on my shoulders.

Stupid girl. It was.

I couldn’t help but cry. I hated crying. Everything I had seen in the last few weeks was insane. It questioned everything I believed in, and it made me realize how frail everything in life was. At twenty-five I couldn’t even fathom that my world was so incomplete.

I sat looking at my image on the cover of American Vogue, thinking how incredibly beautiful ignorance was. Ninety-nine percent of the world thought I had an ideal life… and a month ago I was perfectly happy being ignorant of the puzzle pieces that had slowly crept into my life. Now that I was seeing a bigger picture my heart felt it was ripping itself out of my chest.

In a fit of frustration I threw the magazine across the room, ironically smashing the sleek art deco frame of my first modelling tour in Paris. Even back then, I always knew there was something wrong with me, there was always something in the back of my head scratching away at the perfection I was trying so hard to fake. Every year it seemed like my life became more and more imaginary, until the truth came to me and shattered everything I had hid behind. The rest of the clutter in my apartment was pretty meaningless at this point, a life of false imagery created for a girl who didn’t know who she was.

I didn’t know what to make of my life or the things that I had collected, but part of me wanted to remember everything I had gone through. I never had the perfect life; I had screwed up plenty of it, but there were people I was definitely going to miss. I gathered a few items, some letters from my mom, my dad’s locket that he gave me before he died, a photograph of my sister, and the drawings I had sketched from my dreams. I didn’t know why the drawings were important, but I’m sure they held some clue to what was happening.

As my emotions played with my sanity, I realized that I was risking too much by just reliving my past in my head and wasting valuable time. I finished rustling through drawers of personal items and I slid everything into a little backpack. By the time I was done my apartment looked like the mob had ransacked it, but at least I had one last chance to see my life before I walked away. With little more than a second thought I grabbed the backpack, threw it over my shoulder, and walked to the front door. My body stopped as my hand touched the doorknob, remembering that I forgot something. The gun.

I wasn’t used to carrying a gun. I wasn’t used to being an action star or getting into fights. I didn’t even know that I could shoot a gun. Yet I walked over to the table, picked up the pistol, and calmly slid the action back to check that there was a round in the chamber like I had done it a thousand times before. For a moment I paused, wondering how I even knew how to do it. Stephen said these things would come back to me slowly, that I shouldn’t be scared of things as they naturally fell back in place.

There were thoughts that didn’t seem like my own dancing around in my head. I walked back into the kitchen and pulled out the drawer, grabbing my old check books and all the little notes with the names and numbers of everyone I talked to. I went into my bedroom, dug to the very back of my closet and retrieved a shoebox I had never seen before. I pulled the lid off and was almost shocked to see an ornate knife resting in an ancient leather sheath.

I took it in my hand and slid the blade out, amazed to see how much craftsmanship was in the blade. It had a handle of silver that felt warm to the touch and had a series of gemstones that were clouded in grey and blue. It was Japanese, no, perhaps it was Egyptian. I wasn’t sure. Something in me told me it was both. Something told me it had been around a lot longer than either. I was confused, more that I didn’t know how it got into my closet or that I knew it was there to begin with. I didn’t like being confused.

I slid all of my newly discovered items into my backpack, glanced one more time around the place I had called home for the past two years, then locked the door behind me. As I made my way down the stairs I didn’t even think about looking back again, that life was over.