Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
—Plato

Some people are afraid of crowds, others have a crippling fear of spiders.

However, I cannot—will not—look in the mirror. It speaks dirty things to me. Its pale, shriveled eyes are sunk deep into calcified sockets; skin, a gangrene yellow. A carmine tongue darts between the calculus of its tubular teeth. I can smell its breath even after I shut my eyes. I cannot do what it says.

I won’t. I will not kill my mother.

I bash the mirror against the tile floor into a hundred pieces—each shard a dagger. Voices scream in my head. They won’t shut up. A hundred eyes are upon me.

“Mother! Mother, I need you!”

“Coming dear ... Oh my ... you are broken.”

“Mother! What is that?”

“Don’t worry, Son, there’s an art to dying. I have a new mirror for you.”