#me yelling at myself in the mirror | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alexwritesit · 6 months

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The day I was ready to say goodbye

The mirror that seemingly looks into the past of you. (kind of a Vent post)

As the evening sun cast a warm, golden glow through the windows, I sat in the living room, the air heavy with an unspoken tension. The woman across from me extended a key with a gesture that was both graceful and calculated, her eyes holding a spark of envy as they fixed on me. Perhaps she longed for a life less bound by formalities and signatures. “Please sign here,” she requested, her voice a smooth melody, as she presented a document whose contents were as enigmatic to me as the distant stars.

Her elegance was undeniable, draped in a fur coat that lay across the sofa like a slumbering beast. The suit she wore spoke volumes of the stark, unforgiving world she navigated - a world of sharp edges and colder hearts. Yet, there she was, an epitome of grace under pressure.

“Thank you,” I murmured, accepting the pen with a nod. My signature flowed onto the paper, an unremarkable finale to our transaction. She responded not with words, but with a smile that was a masterful performance in itself - polite, pleasant, yet as devoid of warmth as a winter’s dawn. It was a smile born of years in a role that demanded perfection and offered little room for genuine emotion. In that moment, I felt a fleeting sense of camaraderie for this stranger, bound as we were by the roles we played in a world that watched with unblinking eyes.

The silence that hung in the air after my signature was laid upon the paper felt almost suffocating, dense with unspoken thoughts and veiled intentions. She examined my signature with a practiced eye, her lips curling into that same insincere smile that seemed to mock the very notion of genuine emotion. It gnawed at my patience, stirring a restless urge within me to escape the confines of this opulently oppressive room.

I could feel the weight of the room closing in around me, as if the very walls were whispering secrets meant only for the shadows. The fireplace behind her, cold and neglected, stood as a silent witness to countless such transactions, its ashes untouched and forlorn, a stark contrast to the superficial warmth of her demeanor.

Breaking the stifling stillness, her voice, smooth and controlled, filled the space. “Thank you, once again, Sir,” she said, her words meticulously chosen, void of any genuine sentiment. With a fluid motion, she retrieved her coat from the couch, its fabric whispering secrets of luxury and distant, cold places. Her glance towards me was brief, a fleeting connection that held no promise of understanding or empathy. “I won’t bother you, I’ll see myself out. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” I echoed, the word a mere formality, empty and devoid of meaning. As she moved to leave, the room seemed to exhale, releasing me from its invisible grip. Yet, in the wake of her departure, the echo of that insincere smile lingered, a ghostly reminder of the masks we all wear.

The old house, veiled in the soft glow of twilight, seemed almost to beckon with a deceptive warmth. As I stood there, the world around me felt steeped in a melancholic stillness, the kind that speaks more of sorrow than of peace. The air carried a faint, musty scent, a reminder of years gone by, unyielding to the passage of time.

From my vantage point, the living room stretched out, shrouded in the twilight’s embrace. Each shadow seemed to hold a whisper of the past, a murmur of moments long since withered. The chill that crept through the room was more than just the absence of warmth; it was the ghost of forgotten laughter, the echo of dreams that had once danced within these walls.

In my hands, the keys felt like relics of a life half-lived, heavy with the weight of unspoken regrets. They were cold to the touch, as if they too had absorbed the essence of this place - a tangible reminder of a bond broken, a promise unkept.

My husband’s words echoed in my mind, a somber melody that matched the rhythm of my heart. “This is not a home,” he had said, his voice a low thrum of conviction. “A place that breeds only pain deserves no fond remembrance, no tender thoughts.” And as I gazed upon the dim outlines of furniture, the remnants of a life once cherished, I couldn’t help but feel he might be right.

The silence that hung in the air was not empty but filled with the longing of what could have been. It was a silence that spoke volumes, a testament to the chasm between the life we live and the life we yearn for.

Rising slowly from the couch, I could hear its aged frame sighing beneath me, a creaking sound that seemed to fracture the silence, releasing a breath of bygone years. It felt as if the very air around me shifted, infused with a transient, almost ethereal sense of relief, as if the house itself were exhaling a long-held breath.

My gaze drifted towards the fireplace, now a silent guardian of memories. It was adorned with an array of flowers, their colors faded yet still clinging to a semblance of life, and picture frames that captured frozen moments in time. Each frame was like a window into a past that felt both distant and painfully close, painting a picture of an era when this house still dared to wear the mask of normalcy, when it still held onto the illusion of warmth.

Those photographs, with their smiling faces and eyes full of hope, seemed to mock the present with their portrayal of a happiness that had long since ebbed away. The fireplace, once the heart of the home, now stood as a somber monument to what had been—a time when the house had tried, in its own way, to emulate a haven of love and laughter.

As I lingered in my observations, a pang of nostalgia twisted within me, a longing for those days of feigned normality, for the comfort of an illusion now shattered. The semblance of warmth that once permeated these walls had dissipated, leaving behind only the cold truth of what this house had become.

With each step toward the doors leading into the foyer, a sense of finality grew within me. Casting a lingering glance back, the living room, a space where years of my life had unfolded, now lay before me as a desolate shell, its echoes of laughter and tears reduced to mere whispers in the dust.

Crossing the threshold into the foyer, memories rushed at me like a gust of cold wind. The staircase, once a playground of innocent adventures, where I used to slide down in giddy delight, stood stark and uninviting. Its wood, once warm to the touch, now felt as cold and distant as my faded childhood. I was no longer the carefree child who had once seen these stairs as a mountain to conquer.

Ascending the staircase, I felt the gaze of paintings lining the walls. These familiar faces, once mere decorations, now seemed to scrutinize me, their silent judgment echoing the changes time had wrought. In their stillness, they questioned what I had become, witnesses to the transformation of both the house and myself.

Turning right down the hallway, each step was a journey back in time, to the room that had once been my sanctuary. My bedroom door stood ajar, like a portal to a past life. Within those walls, I had battled imaginary monsters lurking under the bed, traveled to faraway lands through the pages of books, and wept into my pillow in the solitude of night. The room, which once echoed with the boundless imagination of a child, now waited, silent and unchanged, yet irrevocably altered in the eyes of the grown person I had become.

As I stepped into the room, it was as though time had stood still. Everything was exactly as I had left it years ago, a capsule of my younger self. My diary, its secrets still safeguarded by a lock, rested inside the desk. The key, cleverly hidden between a painting and the wall through a small hole, remained my secret.

The room was suffused with a sense of stillness, as if it had been holding its breath all these years, waiting for my return. Dust had settled over everything, a testament to the passage of time, yet it felt oddly fitting, like a veil over the past. The mirror, standing sentinel against one wall, was the only object that seemed unchanged, its surface clouded with the dust of years gone by.

I paused, my reflection a ghostly outline in the glass. “I read a story that mirrors hold memories of times past,” I murmured to the silent room. The words hung in the air, a question left unanswered.

In the ensuing silence, a strange sensation washed over me. My gaze drifted away from the mirror, lost in thought. But when I looked back, the reflection had shifted subtly. There, in the glass, was a younger version of myself, eyes wide with the innocence and dreams of youth.

“Is it true, Alexandra?” The question slipped from my lips, half in wonder, half in disbelief. The reflection in the mirror - a younger me - seemed to hold a world of answers, a connection to a past self I had long thought lost.

“You changed,” the girl in the mirror observed, her voice tinged with the unmistakable timbre of youth. Her words echoed softly in the room as I settled into a chair, facing this fragment of my past.

“Time does that to people,” I replied, a smile touching my lips despite the surreal nature of the conversation.

“It didn’t change me?” Her image in the mirror tilted her head, a gesture so familiar it tugged at my heart.

“You changed alongside me, in a way,” I said softly, reflecting on the journey that had led me here.

“What is your new name?”

“Alexander,” I answered, feeling a strange kinship with the girl who shared my history.

“We still don’t have a good imagination with names, do we?” she teased, a playful glint in her eyes.

“No, we don’t,” I chuckled, and her laughter, so pure and unburdened, filled the room like music. It was a sound from another time, a reminder of a joy that was both lost and found in this moment.

“So Alexander,” she said with a sense of newfound respect, “You’re very tall!”

“I am!” I agreed, a sense of pride swelling in my chest at her awe.

“Can you climb trees?”

“I can! And not just trees,” I added with a smirk, “I can even climb some mountains.”

“Wow!” Her eyes widened with admiration. “Did you climb Mount Everest?”

I paused, a flicker of unfulfilled dreams crossing my mind. “No,” I admitted, “But I did climb Shkhara and Risnjak.”

“Risnjak?” Her curiosity was palpable, her image leaning closer in the mirror.

“Yes, I went back to Croatia.”

She gasped, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Mom and dad let you!?”

At her question, a shadow passed over me. The room seemed to grow a bit colder, the dust motes in the air swirling with silent histories. I remained silent, the weight of unspoken stories hanging heavily in the air.

Her expression in the mirror changed, a dawning understanding replacing her initial excitement. “Oh,” she said softly, the single word heavy with meaning.

In that moment, the gap between us – the child full of wonder and the adult bearing the complexities of life – felt both vast and yet intimately close. Our shared reflection in the dusty mirror bridged years of experiences, unifying two parts of a singular journey.

“Where are Mom and Dad?” she asked, her voice tinged with a mixture of confusion and concern.

“They don’t live here anymore,” I responded, the words feeling heavy even as they left my lips.

“Why?” The innocence in her question made my heart ache.

“They… they don’t like it here,” I said, choosing my words carefully, trying to soften the blow of reality for her youthful understanding.

“And what about grandpa?” Her eyes, so full of childlike curiosity, searched mine in the mirror for answers.

“He went to Heaven,” I said gently, the words stirring a whirlpool of emotions within me.

“He died?” The simplicity of her question struck a chord, echoing in the silence of the room.

I nodded, feeling a tightness in my throat. It was a challenge to maintain composure, to be the bearer of truths I knew would pain her. “He said he was very proud of us,” I added, offering this white lie as a small comfort, both to her and to myself.

Her reflection in the mirror took on a solemn air, absorbing the news with a quiet maturity that belied her years. In that moment, the lines between past and present blurred, as I found solace in the imagined approval of a loved one lost, conveyed through the hopeful eyes of a child who was once me.

“Do you still wear dresses?” she asked, her image tilting its head with curiosity.

“No,” I chuckled, the sound echoing slightly in the still room. “I don’t wear dresses. They’re just not my style.”

“Good. You’d look weird in them,” she said with the blunt honesty only a child could muster.

“You think?” I raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Yeah!” she giggled, her laughter ringing clear and light.

“I guess it’s also because I can’t find dresses in my size,” I added playfully, “Which is just as well.”

“Really?” Her eyes widened in mock surprise.

“Mhm.”

There was a brief pause before she asked, “Do Mom and Dad call you Alexander now?”

The question caught me off guard. “They…” I hesitated, grappling with the complexities of that relationship. “They don’t,” I finally admitted.

“Do you talk with them?”

“No, I don’t.” The words were simple, but they carried the weight of untold stories and deep-seated feelings.

“Good, I don’t like them,” she declared with a firm nod.

Her straightforwardness took me aback, a stark contrast to the nuanced feelings I harbored. But there was also a sense of validation in her words, a reminder that some parts of us remain unaltered by time and circumstance.

Her image in the mirror smiled, a reflection of resilience and a hint of shared rebellion. In that smile, I found an unexpected ally in the girl I used to be, a bridge across the years that had shaped me into who I am now.

“Your accent is weird too,” she noted, a playful glint in her eyes.

“Weird?” I echoed, feigning surprise.

“Yes,” she affirmed. “You don’t sound like I do.”

“Well, I haven’t sounded like you in a long time,” I replied with a smile.

“Is that…” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “Puberty?”

I burst into laughter at her earnest inquiry. “Kind of,” I managed to say between chuckles.

“Your puberty was very strong,” she observed with wide-eyed seriousness.

“Ha?” My amusement grew.

“You turned into a boy,” she said, as if stating a fascinating fact.

“Oh-” I struggled to contain another laugh, “No, this isn’t just puberty. It’s because of surgery and medicine.”

“Oh!” Her eyes widened in understanding. “So, we are no longer girls?”

“No, you are still a girl. I just realized later that I was actually a boy.”

“Oh.” She tilted her head, considering this new information. “Was grandma happy? She always wanted a grandson.”

“She was,” I nodded, a warm memory surfacing. “She was happy, as long as she got great-grandchildren.”

“Well?” Her curiosity was evident.

“Well, what?”

“Did you get her great-grandchildren?”

“I did,” I laughed, my heart lightening at her reaction. I pulled out my phone, swiped through the gallery, and turned the screen to show her. Her reflection in the mirror leaned in, eyes wide with wonder.

“Wow!” she gasped.

“Her name’s Anastasia,” I said, a proud smile crossing my face as I scrolled to another photo.

“Like the princess?!” she exclaimed, her smile bright and infectious.

“Exactly like the princess,” I affirmed, feeling a surge of joy at her excitement.

I flicked to another picture. “And this is my husband.”

“We have a husband? Ew!” She scrunched up her nose in mock disgust, her childhood aversion to boys still apparent.

“He’s actually very nice,” I assured her.

“Really?” She looked skeptical but curious.

“Yep. And he looks nice, doesn’t he?”

“He does.” She studied the photo, her initial ickiness giving way to intrigue. “He’s a good cook too,” I added.

“That’s cool. Did Grandma meet him?”

“She did,” I nodded, recalling the meeting fondly.

“Did she like him?”

“She did. She really did.”

“Yes!” She jumped in excitement, her energy almost tangible even through the mirror.

Her enthusiasm filled the room, bridging the years between us. In her reactions, I found echoes of my own journey – the initial doubts, the discoveries, the joys of building a life that was true to who I am. Seeing her acceptance, her unfiltered happiness for my choices, was like receiving a blessing from my past self.

The room fell into a contemplative silence again, the figure in the mirror watching me intently as I pocketed my phone. I could sense her unspoken question hanging in the air.

“Why did you come back?” she finally asked, her voice soft but curious.

“Can’t I come back to my home?” I countered lightly.

“We didn’t like this house. We never called it a home,” she reminded me, her reflection a mirror to my past sentiments.

“You’re right,” I conceded, acknowledging our shared history with the place.

“Then why return?”

“I came back because I had to,” I explained, leaning back in the chair. “I had to do something to get this house under our name.”

“This house is now ours?” Her eyes lit up with a mix of surprise and intrigue.

“Yes, it’s ours now.”

“Without Mom and Dad?”

“Mhm.”

“But what if they come here?”

“They won’t,” I assured her confidently. “Thankfully, they won’t.”

“But what if they do?”

“Did I ever lie to you?” I asked, meeting her gaze in the mirror.

“No? I mean, you’re me and I’m you. You never lied to yourself.”

“Exactly,” I affirmed with a smile.

“You’re weird,” she declared, a playful note in her voice.

“You’re weird,” I echoed, teasing her.

“I’m not!” she protested, but her smile was soft, content.

In that moment, the bond between us – the grown-up Alexander and the child in the mirror – felt both surreal and profoundly real. There was a comfort in this strange communion, a sense of closure and new beginnings. The house, once a source of pain, was now a blank canvas, waiting for new memories to be painted on its walls.

“I was thinking of turning this room into a nursery.”

“For Anastasia?!” Her voice rose in excitement, echoing the glee of our shared childhood.

“Yes!” I confirmed, her enthusiasm infectious.

She squealed, a sound that transported me back to my own childhood days. “Turn this room into a princess room!”

“A princess room?” I repeated, intrigued by her imagination.

“Yes! With golden curtains, white sheets, and beautiful stars…” she trailed off, her eyes sparkling with ideas.

“I might just do that,” I said, considering her suggestions with a smile.

“But—” She hesitated, her expression turning thoughtful.

“What is it?” I prompted gently.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

“For what?” I asked, curious about her sudden change in tone.

“For becoming happy,” she said sincerely.

“No, Alexandra, listen,” I started, feeling a swell of emotions.

“I am,” she assured me, her gaze earnest.

“You were like a butterfly ready to bloom,” I said, trying to convey the journey of transformation we had undergone.

“You’re a narcissist, Alexander,” she teased, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

“I’m joking,” I laughed, relieved by her light-heartedness. “We became happy. Without you, I wouldn’t exist.”

“Well, you are me and I am you,” she said, a profound understanding in her voice.

“That’s right,” I agreed, feeling a sense of completion.

In this exchange, the room filled with more than just laughter and light-hearted banter. It was filled with the understanding that every step I had taken, every decision made, was part of a journey that led me to this moment of contentment and self-acceptance. The nursery, once a room of dreams and make-believe, would now be a place of new beginnings and joy for another generation.

“Mirrors hold memories, Alexander,” she said softly, her voice carrying a wisdom beyond her years.

“They truly do,” I agreed, feeling the weight of our shared past in her words.

“Can you please let me go?” Her request was gentle but firm, a plea for closure.

I hesitated, the silence stretching between us. “Let you go?” I echoed, the idea startling.

“Yes. Break the mirror.”

“Break it?!” I was taken aback. “But that’s ten years of bad luck.”

“That’s just a superstition,” she countered calmly.

“What if I just leave you here?” I suggested, not ready to part with this connection.

“Why?” Her question was simple yet profound.

“Well…” I struggled to find a reason.

“You don’t have an answer,” she observed.

“I’m thinking,” I chuckled, buying time. “Actually, I think it would look great in this room.”

“What would?”

“A beautiful golden mirror for a princess, don’t you think?” I tried to lighten the mood.

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she gazed at me with eyes deep as the ocean, and for a moment, it seemed as if the sea itself spilled from her eyes, tears cascading down her cheeks into an unseen abyss.

“Thank you, Alexander,” she whispered, her voice filled with a blend of gratitude and farewell.

“Thank you, Alexandra,” I replied, feeling a surge of emotions.

In that instant, the mirror rippled as if disturbed by droplets of water. As the surface calmed, her reflection faded, leaving only my own. The girl I once was had vanished, her parting a symbolic release of a past self.

I stood there for a moment, absorbing the quiet. The room felt different now—lighter, as if a weight had been lifted. My heart echoed that lightness, a sense of peace settling in.

#writer #creative writing #writeblr #vent post #vent writing #To be perfectly honest #There is a mirror in my old room #and I wish to destroy it. I remember staring at it for hours #and crying #screaming and yelling at it for hours.#This is just a post that let's me properly say goodbye to myself #To the girl that cried in front of that mirror.

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