I looked into the mirror and smiled as I saw the image. The mirror was full length, of course, nothing else would do. My sharp blue eyes saw all. I noticed how they sparkled and displayed the pleasure I found in the way that the royal blue dress showed how I curved in just the right places. My hair fell in long wavy locks around my neck and fell gracefully on my straight shoulders. The hair framed my face and showed my ears which were perfectly proportioned. My smile showed just enough of my straight and pearly white teeth. My lips were full, but not too full, and were a cherry red. My skin was a nice creamy white, with a bit of a blush on the cheeks. My dress ended just above the knees showing my shapely legs which taper down to tiny, delicate ankles and feet. I was beautiful and I knew it. My beauty was my pride and my vanity my fault.
I stretched out my arms to touch the surface of the mirror with my small, yet graceful hands. I had often been told my fingers would be perfect for playing the piano, but I could never play an instrument which would make me cut off my long nails, painted the same color as my lips. I reached the surface of the mirror, where my face appeared, and touched the surface. To my horror, my hand and the image's hand passed through the glass at the same time, and the image's hand wrapped around my wrist. I pulled back in horror, trying to break the grip. Instead I was slowly pulled into the mirror. I saw my reflection moving past me, exchanging worlds with me. I reached with my other hand and raked at her face as we went past each other. The next second I found myself in a room kind of like my own, but with a silvery-bluish tinge to it. I started to shiver, realizing that it is very cold inside the mirror. When I looked up, I realized that I was looking through the mirror the other way. What I saw caused me to want to scream in horror.
I saw something that resembled me, but did not have my physical beauty. My eyes met eyes that were a dull grey blue, with speckles of brown in them. Above these eyes are big, awkward, bushy eyebrows and under them are big bags that make it look like she had black eyes. The once perfect skin was covered with pimples, on the tip of the nose, on the chin, all over the forehead. The blush of the cheeks was gone and instead the image had a yellow, sallow complexion. The only satisfaction I found in looking at the face was that there were four bleeding scratches across it. The hair was down and scraggly, looking unbrushed and very greasy. The dress is very wrinkled and shows obvious bulges where a woman should not have bulges and hips that make the seams on the dress look like they might burst. The legs are bulging with fat and look like they will jiggle when she walks. Then I see the feet. They are very big, with very dark hair on the top and on the big toe. The nails are yellow and cracked. When I see the hand come up to point at me, I recoil in horror. The hand is still small, but it is pudgy. The fingers are long and the knuckles are huge. There is a wart in the middle of the back of her hand, and one could see dark hair on the arm. The nails are uneven, like they have been broken and the nail polish is chipped.
I then notice that my hand had made the same motion as the image's and that my hand looks just the same as the images. The images hand moves towards her face and I feel mine rising at the same pace. I try to fight the motion, for I do not want to feel my face, but my hand reaches and brushes my face. I feel the blemishes under my fingers, and my face stings as my hand feels the scratches. I slowly lose sight of the image as my face is forced down, and I see myself bulging in my wrinkled dress. I want to cry but as my face jerks up, I feel a smile on my face and I know that the triumphant smile I see on the image's face is also seen on my face.
"Now," she croaked, "see yourself as you really are." Then with a laugh we turned and walked out of the room. As my back turns, I know that I am trapped in this awful, cold world and that now I am the image.
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