Fiction

mirrorball // how to love yourself at the end of the world

mirrorball // how to love yourself at the end of the world

Outside, the sky is falling to pieces. The ground is coated with dust and ashes. Buildings are aflame. They did say the end was near. Some tried to fight it, some denied it, but it came all the same.

Inside, my bedroom looks the same as it has for years. A kind purple wall, a big mirror with rounded edges hanging right in the middle. My grandmother’s lamp in the corner, its light too bright and white for something made of dimmed bronze. My bed has a black frame, metal curls for corners.

My bedroom is like it has always been. No one else is around. It’s just me on the carpet in my bare feet.

It feels like I’m doing this wrong. Like there’s some manual on what to do when the world is ending and everyone knows exactly how to act and where to be because they’ve all read it cover to cover. My copy must’ve gotten lost in the mail. What do you do in a moment like this? Should I sit around and wait for it all to be over? What a waste that would be.

My reflection looks back at me from the mirror, sitting on a perfect copy of my carefully made bed, the covers dark blue and smoothed out. My silver shirt stands out, consisting of a thousand squares of mirror-like sequins. My best friend and I bought it together one afternoon when we skipped school to go shopping. I wonder where hers is now. I wonder whether it’s burning yet.

I look up at the rest of me. My hair, curls out of control tied in a loose bun at the back of my head. The scar on my chin from when I was eight years old and fell on the stairs. My narrow eyes, the skin below dark and tired, but the blues of my irises shining regardless. There is so much that’s familiar about this face, but it’s like I’m looking at it anew.

I spent so much time hating the lines in my forehead, the way my ears were shaped, the size of my nose. Why? What did it get me, in the end?

My foot traces a circle on the carpet, the fabric tickling between my toes. Then I stand, and turn, and turn again. My arms go up, shaping themselves around me, above my head. I’ve never done ballet, but I try to mimic the movements anyhow. Try and fail to make it look the way it does in the movies.

There’s no music, but I dance anyway. None of us has the time to wait for the perfect song to come on anymore.

Perhaps this is how it’s done. Perhaps this is in the manual: spend your last hours doing exactly what feels right, even if it sounds and looks ridiculous. So I dance every dance I know. Every silly social media trend and all the bits I still remember having learnt during my primary school days. Hip-hop and samba and quickstep and all the dance moves I’ve never learnt. Then, in the end, I go back to my own quivering form of ballet. I’ve never been a natural, but I try, and I try, and I try.

I’m doing everything to keep my attention on the mirror, on me. As long as I keep looking at me, the world outside doesn’t seem so bad. So I dance, twirling around on my tiptoes, in front of the glass.

The flames outside are reflected in my shirt, leaving specs of yellow and orange on the walls around me. I’m surprised by how different the reflection is from the world outside. Still, without the world, the reflection wouldn’t be there. Without the fires, there would be no specs of light shining here, just for me. This is fire. Small and twinkling as well as great and all-consuming. Deadly as well as beautiful.

I’m a mirrorball. The whole world, reflected inside of me. All of me, reflected in that mirror. Every shattered edge and rugged corner. Ever blemish and imperfection. The more I move around, the more sides of me I see. And for once, it’s enough.

This is just for me, because that’s all that’s left. Me, in front of this mirror. Me, standing here, free to move without the outside masquerade, without anyone telling me what’s wrong and what’s right, what’s pretty and what’s not. Me, without changing anything about myself to fit in. Here, in this moment, it’s so easy to do what I’ve been trying for years. It’s so easy to love myself.

Just like that, I’m laughing. It’s been a while since I heard my voice, but now it thunders from my throat, laughing and singing as I’m spinning. A performance for no one but these purple walls and me.

The world outside roars as I’m on my tallest tiptoes. A building crashing, stone turned to rubble, fires turned to embers. That’s what this will all end in, eventually.

But for now, I’m in my room, dancing with a freedom I’ve never felt before, looking back at every version of myself before my building falls, too. Before I break into a million pieces.

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