This always happens when I look in this damned mirror. I see things that cannot possibly be there. I cannot look this bad—haunted eyes and strained veins, cracked skin and yellowed teeth.
A knock on the door jolts me away from the image. “Can I come in sweetie,” my mom’s muffled voice travels into my room and I hear the creaky doorknob already starting to turn. I grunted an affirmative and felt myself shrink as I tried to smile up at her.
“You left your pills downstairs again,” she said and gently passed me the bottle. I glanced at her own reflection in my mirror and saw a woman just as beautiful as she looked in front of me.
“Damned funhouse mirror,” I muttered, swallowing a pill with my spit.