Your shadow is growing jealous of your reflection.
( Prompt by @plotsandpromptsforall )
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The morning routine begins the same way, every day.
Before faces are even washed, before foundation considered, they bicker.
“Another day faced with beauty,” says Shadow, cast behind you on a plain white wall filled with cabinets, made ever stronger by the five bright lights blaring before you to better illuminate the bathroom space. On days when her silhouette is darker, her opinions are also stronger. And so is her whining. If her form could droop, it probably would. And it does, as you lean over the sink to scrub cleanser into your cheeks before rinsing it away.
“More like faced with the back of our dear person,” says Reflection, massaging dewy moisturizer beneath her eyes to soothe away the dusty shadows and slight puffiness brought from lack of sleep. She is vain, and she doesn’t so much as flick her eyes toward the shadow on the wall, focused solely on her task of finding blemishes and imperfections to cover for the day.
Like your shadow, your reflection is also bound by your actions, repeating even the tiniest movements you make as you reach for bottles and creams and powders lined up across the marble countertop. But the words—the words, they speak themselves, and you are the unfortunate middleman. Mostly, you roll your eyes and remain silent because this usually only lasts through the morning. When the two aren’t in a space together, they usually keep quiet, too. And when they are? That’s what headphones and music are for.
“No, I can see, you know,” Shadow claims. “I can see every color, every single hair, every eyelash, every pore. You are the shape of me complete and I am nothing but a blank slate of a sloppy, lumpy form.”
Hey now, you want to intervene, but you know it’s something you think of as true on your worst days. At times, you wonder if these two are simply your own struggling thoughts recycled and spat back out at you, pinioning you between the loathing and vanity born from the need for society’s acceptance. Only at times, because their back-and-forth is too real and they have minds of their own, like Peter Pan’s shadow and the evil queen’s mirror on the wall.
“Jealous?” Reflection taunts, a smirk on her lips as she smoothes a light pink lip balm over them that smells like fake strawberries and oil.
Shadow nods, hands on hips, as you consider your foundation palette for the day. You never can quite find a tone that matches your skin perfectly, so mixing two, sometimes three, has to do. “I’m not ashamed to say yes. I want to be filled in. I want to have eyes. I want the color of our lips and our fingernails. You have all of that beauty for free.”
“Beauty? Please. If anything, I’m jealous of you, you silly thing. You’re free of the pressure imperfection brings. You have no scars to hide, no acne, no crooked teeth. You have no need to pluck the hairs between your eyebrows or seal the makeup on your face to hold everything together.” Reflection purses her lips as the foundation is dotted all around and smoothed and patted in with a damp blending sponge. You’re no make-up pro, but it does well enough.
“I am not beautiful,” Shadow says, and she believes it, deep down. “You can’t be jealous of me.”
“Yes you are,” Reflection counters, and she believes it, too. “And yes I can.”
“No, you—”
“Yes, I—”
Their words overlap and the sound grates on your ears.
Today, just the one day, you choose to reply and put an end to the argument that took a strange turn into the sentimental.
“Agreed. We’re all beautiful no matter what we look like. Even if we aren’t, who really cares? This is who we are and we have to live with it.” You check your face for streaks, making sure it’s all covered, and decide it’ll have to do. If there’s a flaw left over that bothers someone, they'll just have to get over it.
“And for what it’s worth, I’m jealous of both of you because y'all don’t have to exist in a three-dimensional, physical form.”
To this, they have no response. Blessed silence at last.