the death of me

As told to:zeph mege These are random excerpts from
a girl who lives with her killer in
the same room and even used
to go everywhere with her. She
shares her story. I have had many near-death
experiences, but as per now, I
am sure of what will kill me. And
no, I am in no weird cult, neither
am I planning to commit suicide.
At first, I thought it was just a simple obsession, but as soon as
I arrived in Texas, where guns
are legal, I knew, the death of
me was soon coming. It is painful
to know that my killer is
everywhere, being polished and made new every day. As the
darkness gives rise to a new
dawn, so does my killer gain a
glow and sheen that they do
not show at night, though they
are still as lethal at night as they are during the daylight.
But, inevitably, I have to look
at, my will-be-killer every
morning. And I even walk with it
in my purse. In fact, I own
several of them. As soon as my I was sent off to
study, I quit having rules and let
life sway me where it willed. And
boy, it was bliss as I warmed
laps and kissed lips. I did things
you probably cannot write about in your Facebook note. A week
into school and I was already in
some boy’ s lap, late into the night, hearing and whispering
sweet nothings into each
other’ s ears. It was all good and the pursuit of pleasure led
me to holes and probes I
wouldn’ t have ventured into had I been back at home. They
flattered me and massaged my
ego, and butt. The more I
indulged, the more I saw my
killer often and the closer to
death I got. I used to think that mine was
big until I met Mary Jane and
she dared me, “Show me yours and I’ ll show you mine, maybe mine is bigger than yours”. I had spoken about it before but
no one had ever dared me to
do that. I obliged and showed
her mine, she showed me hers
too, and boy it was a big one. I
mean, mine wasn’ t small, but hers made mine look small. With
time, we became the best of
friends, as we were united by a
common enemy, our potential
killer. Clichéd I know but the
saying still holds true, the enemy of my enemy…became my friend. It is no lie that I am a boy
magnet, a North Pole at that. I
have a pretty face and all, but
elsewhere, I am as English as
they get. And it hurt my ego.
Once, I dated a guy who gave me the green light to go against
flesh and blood. I decide to go
plastic and went for cosmetic
surgery. In three short hours, I
moved from F to D…that is flat to D…and I felt good as I stared at my killer and a rueful smile
hovered around the lips. I smiled
at my killer and wondered what
had happened to the good old
days, when diamonds and not
silicone were a girl’ s best friend. But that was just the beginning;
my relationship with Mary Jane
was just getting off to a whole
new level. We carried our killers
in our purses and saw others in
buildings all over the state. I had one big one placed in my
bathroom, it wasn’ t even hidden and Mary Jane was fond
of it. Me too. Things got really
worse late last year when Mary
Jane committed suicide when her
boyfriend told her she had a
small butt. I laughed when I first read the text, coz I thought it
was a joke. But woe unto me, I
went and saw her, hung in her
room, with her killer, the bigger
mirror, in her hand, and in front
of her. There and then, I realized, I had mine too, in my
purse. After her burial, I looked at the
photos we had taken together
and for the umpteenth time, I
looked for the small butt, it
wasn’ t there. She was simply obsessed with herself and had a
low self-esteem. Then I realized
that I was judging her, and
decided to remove the log
before I de-specked my dead
friend’ s eyes. I looked at my teenage photos and saw a
pretty person. I looked inside
and felt good again. But when I
stared at my mirror, I saw the
small butt, the small hip, the
plastic D, and the fake deeds I had done to myself to make me
feel more appreciable. I saw (or
rather didn’ t see) the missing eyebrows, I saw the painted lip… the pouted lip…the botox-ed eyes and the extended hair. I
saw more of plastic than flesh; I
felt more of silicone than blood. I
felt expensive but not worthy, I
felt soft, but not real, I felt
colorful, but not happy, I felt human, but more plastic. It was
at that point that I removed all
my killers from the many purses
I had. I threw away the mirrors. Round
mirrors that made me look less
round, square mirrors that made
me see the square nose that no
one else saw, the heart shaped
mirrors that took away my heart and humanity and turned
me into a living corpse, butterfly
shaped mirrors that flew away
with the sweetness of life and
the new mirrors that made me
look older than I was, or so I thought. I had spent my life in front of
mirrors than at dates. I took
twice the time to indulge my
mirror than to enjoy dates. Even
while at dates, I still had to rush
to the bathroom to keep up with the mirror. And there were
many of us. Black girls, white
girls, pretty girls and very
pretty girls, women and
mothers, wives and concubines,
all united in staring into vanity and seeing falsehood. The age
old fairy tale question, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’ s the fairest of them all?” crosses their thoughts and mine, as we
twisted and turned, plucked and
grew, tucked and nipped, all to
satisfy the killer on the wall. Three weeks after this, I saw
her coffin, all lined in mirrors
and linen…and I couldn’ t fail to notice, the making of her, was
also the death of her. “There is a thin line between truth and fiction. This is that
line”.