Ghostly Memories

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. She looked just like me, but she was not me. I was sure of it. I stepped closer, leaned in, and breathed against the glass. My breath spiderwebbed and vanished, leaving behind a girl I didn’t recognize. No, I knew her. It was me, but better.

In the reflection, my hair was clean and brushed into glossy waves. Odd, I can’t remember the last time I touched a hair brush. I opened the bathroom drawer and stared into the space it was supposed to be. I clicked my tongue in annoyance. It was thick in my mouth, sluggish from alcohol and drugs. I couldn’t quite remember the past few nights. Where was my water? I ran a hand over a chapped mouth, wiping sweat from my upper lip. I swiped it along my bottom lip, liking the pressure of my finger and cracking the tight, thin skin.

My reflection had ruby-red painted lips, sharp eyeliner, and sleepy mascara eyes. She was freshly bathed. I flipped the handle on the faucet. The water was still turned off, as it had been for the past week. I smacked the faucet handle back down. The uncoordinated movements knocked my phone from the sink edge to the floor. I didn’t bother picking it up. Mostly debt collectors called anyway. My mother called to tell me how I disappointed her, and friends called when I had drugs.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I inspected the dress of green silk she wore. It was handmade. I knew because it sat in the boutique window on the corner. I held my breath any time I passed it in a childish game of wish-making. My hands hovered over my ratty shirt, scared to touch it and break the illusion of her. She was the better version of me. What my mother had wanted me to be.

I leaned forward again, closed my eyes, and kissed the mirror. The glass quivered beneath my lips. I felt the warmth of life flooding into the apartment. Sounds filtered in; the tinkling of silverware on plates, light piano music, and the tittering of low laughter. I opened my eyes and looked at the bathroom door. I was the only one in the sad, cold apartment. Most friends had abandoned me when the money ran out. My parents had cut me off again. This time felt more final than the last. Over the past few days, I had been drinking the dregs of the final party alone.

Who was in my house? I reached to open the door, confused. Silk swished my legs as I stepped forward. I looked down, then back up again. I matched my reflection. I ran my hand over my hips in awe. I leaned forward and sniffed gently under my arm, shocked by the light scent of lavender soap. I ran my tongue over my teeth and bit into my lipstick. It didn’t smudge. I breathed in. I breathed out. Quietly, I stepped into the hall.

“A drink, Madame?” A waiter offered me champagne from his tray. Out of habit, I lifted one as he bowed and disappeared down the hall into my bedroom. I stood, slack-jawed, watching him retreat, yet I did not follow. I let the sounds carry me into the living room. At the mouth of the hallway, I stared into the space. The room was full of warm candles, waiters with trays, guests in formal wear, a roaring fire in the fireplace, and gaudy gothic furniture. None of which was mine. I tried to stare into the faces as they passed, but they turned away quickly, almost blurring their features.

My mother was perched on the arm of a winged back chair, where my fathe sat, holding her waist. They chatted and laughed with the Doctor’s parents. The good Protestant boy my mother was devastated to learn I had turned down after only date two. What was his name, again?

“Have you met my parents?” The good Protestant Doctor whispered into my hair, this hot breath licking at my scalp. He took my elbow, Leading me into a chorus of polite hello’s.

“You could’ve had this.” My mother said in greeting as she worried the diamond pendant along its chain at her throat. She glanced over my form. “You wore that? I can see how much weight you’ve gained. Could you be any more embarrassing?”

I sucked in my cheeks at the comment and bit along the inside of them. The Doctor and his parents remained blank in agreement. My father swatted her hip in playful jest and grabbed my hand. He slipped me a hundred-dollar bill and tapped his nose with a wink.

I turned my back to them. What was going on? Is this all a dream? I took a drink from my glass. Ace of Spades champagne. I closed my eyes at the memory. Tommy. A whirlwind two weeks in Italy. Ace of Spades bottles, late night dancing, groping greedy hands under bridges, breakfast in bed, and a room service bill ran so high, I called my Daddy to fix it. Tommy had snuck out the night before when the coke was gone. I opened my eyes and met Tommy’s. His long frame tucked against the kitchen doorway, hands in pockets. He made a crude gesture with his tongue, and I giggled. I held my glass up in salute. He winked, turned on his heel, then slipped out the backdoor.

I polished off the rest of my glass, fanning my face. Was it warm in here? How did everyone get in here? How do I own this dress? How are the lights working? I haven’t paid a bill in over three months. This has to be a dream. I looked down at my champagne glass. I bit it. And let out a muffled scream. The glass broke and sliced into my tongue. I spit it out, coughing. A waiter leaned in, offered a napkin, and wandered off. I held it against my mouth, the blood soaking through. Not a dream. I gingerly felt along my mouth with my fingers. The glass had broken off cleanly, leaving a gash in my lip and tongue. A woman turned around and snatched up my chin. She kissed me and whispered into my mouth how beautiful red lips looked on me. She let her fingers trace the blood along my lower lip, fixing it back in place as if it was lipstick. I vaguely remembered her. A night in Amsterdam and me in a room with the curtains kept open for the men I was traveling with to watch. We put on quite a show for them. Not that I had wanted to. But I wanted to be that girl that was down for anything. And I did whatever they asked.

Maria tapped my ankle, causing me to shriek. The room dimmed a moment; the clatter stopped, then started again. She wore the sequined dress I saw her in last. Mascara blackened her cheeks, and vomit crusted down her neck. She gurgled a quiet help, then face-planted. Her nose crunched on the hardwood under the weight of her head. I had left her that night. Lost in my high, I was unaware she was drowning in hers. Her body writhed and steamed as she melted into the floorboards. I ran my hands under my armpits and wiped them on the curtain behind me. I tried to take in a full breath. I didn’t want to be in this room.

The servers passed by again, their trays piled high with every food item I denied myself through a life of diets. White bread, burgers, cakes, candy, and bloody red meat circled the room. The things denied me as a child, then I maintained as an adult. A tray full of diet pills and recreational drugs stopped before me. Shane, my old drug dealer, held the tray under my nose and smirked. I lived for two summer months on his couch after being cut off from my parents for the first time. Living on Shane’s couch came with a list of jobs I didn’t want to do. He offered me to a friend, then two, and I tucked my tail and headed home. Seeing that slimy bastard smirk at me after everything he did, I flipped his tray. His hands slid into my hair and pulled my face close to his. He hushed me like a baby and patted my cheek. He was softening me for the harder hit he was planning. I didn’t give him the chance to execute. I punched him in the stomach. It was our goodbye, I realized. In his groaning pain, his hands weakened their grip, and I shoved him out into the hallway. Daddy passed me, looked at my face, and pressed another hundred into my hand. He turned his back and walked away.

I didn’t want to be in here anymore. I wanted out of this sick, funhouse mirror version of memories. Auntie Hilda and Granny Janie sat in straight-backed chairs in the corner. The chairs were out of place in the lurid room. Granny Janie waved at me. Auntie Hilda blew me a kiss. I stepped toward them, but they wavered and blinked out of sight. I missed them so much. Those women who loved me most. They were the only ones I wanted to speak to. The only ones I couldn’t reach. The only ones dead.

Hey.

Someone whispered in my ear. I turned. The room had emptied. I look around again.

Hey.

Was that in my ear, or was it outside of it? I ran my hands down the silk, patting and checking that I was still me. Or was I her now? The woman in the mirror? Living in this place with my memories, my old ghosts? Is this woman… apparition?…. Living in the life I should have had?

The candles blew out, and the fireplace softened to a few burned logs. The room dropped in temperature. It filled slowly with hooded figures. They glided along the floor. One reached forward and took my hand. He pulled me over to a table filled with objects.

Pick one.

The same voice as hey, and it’s definitely in my head. These hooded, gliding, masculine beings were speaking into me. Through me. I looked around at them again, distracted. The one holding my hand gently gripped the back of my neck and turned me back to the table.

Pick one.

“What are they?”

No one answered. I ran my hand over the objects. A whip. A crown. A paintbrush. Gold coins. A wand. A heart. Food and drink were piled high in the center of the table. It was life. Power. Respect. Art. Wealth. Magic. Loyalty. Abundance. Everything we want and so few of us have.

Pick one.

One. How can I choose? Looking back into the room of memories, I had not one to be proud of. I needed everything on the table before me, and yet, I deserved none of it. “How?”

Reach out, and take it for yourself. Harness it.

I lifted the crown, the symbol of respect, and placed it on my head. It slipped off back to the pile. I flipped the heart in my fingers, but the cold stone felt strange in my hand. Loyalty didn’t make sense to me in my world of heartache. I lifted the money bag filled with gold coins and let the strings slip along my wrist. The hooded figures raced around me, lifting me from the room, spinning, chanting, and lifting me higher. I grew sleepy under their chanting spells and let myself drift away.

I awoke. I was under the covers in my bed. The room felt warm. It must have been a dream. I shuffled into the bathroom. A drip fell from the faucet, and I turned on the tap. I was shocked at the water flowing. My phone was on the floor, under the sink. I leaned down to grab it. I scrolled through an empty phone with no messages and every contact missing. I met my eyes in the mirror. I was staring at a woman with blood-stained lips, smeared mascara, and an expensive silk dress ruined with sweat and blood. There was a red lipstick stain on the mirror. I had no one.

My reflection winked.