It is day three hundred and sixty-five of being a thing that hurts in the life of the one person I love. Fernando Pessoa was right when he said: the inventor of the mirror poisoned the human heart. My existence is contradictory against nature, against what was meant to be.
I believe human beings were not, in the first place, supposed to see their reflection in something as clear and convenient as me. They were supposed to see themselves in art, inside their mother’s eyes, in the smile of their lover, and in the embrace of a friend. They were supposed to see themselves in the paintings they hung on their wall, drawn by the one who loves them the most.
But I exist, and what is done is done. While it is no intention of mine to be the thing that hurts, it seems to be the only thing I’m good at. It first happened almost a year ago, I remember that day more than any other. She rushed into her room, still in her school uniform, and headed straight to where I was hanged.
I thought it was unusual, the first thing she normally did was to collapse on her bed while trying to wiggle her shoes off her feet. But that day, she gazed into me and her face morphed into confusion. “Are my eyes bulgy?” She muttered, still staring.
It wasn’t a question that was directed at me, or anybody at all, I knew she was asking herself, but I wished so badly that I had the ability to speak. If I could, I would have told her how beautiful her eyes were. I’m not a living thing, but I swear whenever she stares at me it feels like she’s gazing into a soul that I don’t have.
Since I couldn’t say a word, I watched as she got out of her school uniform and slept off. The next morning, she didn’t smile at me, and her beautiful brown eyes didn’t light up. I blame myself, I’ve always blamed myself.
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Fatima Eleojo Hassan is a feminist, fiction writer, and scriptwriter who is passionate about telling stories. She’s also a content writer and front-end developer. In her spare time, she reads poetry and African literature. She also enjoys existentialist and philosophical themes, mostly books written by Kafka and Dostoevsky. She likes to explore the complexities of life, human nature, and the human condition.
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