Are You Looking At Me?
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Are You Looking At Me?

A vivid short story about vanity and facing the inevitable: death.

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Humans always look at me. I'm kind of beautiful that way I guess. Men and women both stare at me constantly. Whenever a human walks by, they can't help but look at me. I'm a rather tall person, about 7 feet high. My frame is rather feminine being very flowery and golden. I know this because I saw my reflection in my sister's face a few times. My first memory of my father was feeling him lightly paint my body with a metallic gold paint. I remember each brush stroke gently tickling my frame. I remember him smiling at me and saying that I was his best work. He had a lot of children, at least ten others. He loved creating of us, and I saw the way he took time with each of my siblings, and I. However, I know I was his favorite because he took the most time decorating me always mumbling, "beautiful" after decorating my body. I was always filled with such sorrow when I saw him packaging up one of my family members in big brown boxes filled with soft white packaging. I never thought he would send me away, I was his favorite. I don't know why he had to send us away. Maybe he thought we would be happier somewhere else in the world. I never wanted to leave him, but as my last sibling had been packaged and sent away, I knew I was next.

It was early in the morning when I heard his phone ring,

"Yes, yes. It is ready. It is a beautiful mirror, perfect for a woman…yes…$1,000…when would you like it to be shipped? Okay, and your address? Uh, huh got it. Should be there in a week or so, shipping overseas will be an extra cost, as I'm sure you know. Right…thank you for your business, ma'am. Goodbye."

I was filled with shock. My father was selling me. A flurry of questions filled my mind. What was it that he called me? A mirror? Is that what I am? Why would he make a profit off of his children, and where was I going? He stood up from his desk and began cleaning me off. He sprayed a cold clear liquid all over my face that smelled like cleaning supplies. He began rubbing me down and then proceeded to walk over to a large brown box. This was my coffin, and I didn't know how long I would be inside of it or where I was going. He gently laid me down on top of a thick layer of little white peanuts. He then covered my face with more of them and closed the lid. I heard him securing the box shut. I was here for hours as it seemed until I felt someone pick me up. I was soon in a moving room hearing a roar of an engine and feeling the vibrating of whatever it was that was transporting me, and then silence. I must have fallen asleep for a long time because I don't remember a lot about the journey.

My next memory was my box being opened up and saw a short woman with shoulder-length black hair pulling me out and sitting me upright. I was in a beautiful boutique of some kind. My guess is that I was only in this boutique for a few days, and I eventually began to become quite happy here, although it was very lonely. There was a large variety of people that came into this shop, so there was a lot for me to observe. Mostly women came into the shop, rarely ever men. For some reason, the women that came up and looked at me were almost always naked. Well, almost. They wore different colors of lace and fabrics that were strategically placed, covering certain parts of their bodies. I never understood what the point of this all was. When the women were done trying on their fabrics, they would pay at the cash register and my new mother would wrap the fabrics up in black tissue paper and place them in a little red box with the title Passion Thread in white cursive across it. I never understood why these garments were meant to be worn under one's clothing. What was the point of wearing something, just so that someone could cover it up with more fabric?

I soon began to put together that this was a type of "lingerie" boutique, as I heard the word used over and over again to refer to the small pieces of fabrics. I heard my new mother inform a customer of the location of our boutique, we were somewhere in Milan, Italy. I assume this is very far away from my father and my old home.

I liked that numerous women would come up to me and look at me, all day. They all must have thought I was quite beautiful. Whenever anyone would walk by, they couldn't help but look at me, sometimes even multiple times. I knew that I made people nervous, they would always look at me and then fix something about their appearance. Whether it was powdering their noses, or fixing loose strands of hair, I knew that I had a certain type of effect on humans.

This boutique was one of the most expensive shops in Milan. I once saw a woman pay $1,000 for a large bag of the lingerie. That was as much as I cost. When I wasn't being admired, I would be turned to face the front of the store, probably to show off my beauty to the customers. I was able to see outside of the shop, through the glass windows, onto the street. I observed a lot of interesting things happening outside. When the shop closed around 6:00 p.m., some of the most interesting things happened outside in the few days that I was here. I witnessed a murder last night. The sun had been gone for many hours, and a woman was walking by the boutique. She suddenly stopped to answer her phone, when a man appeared behind her. It was hard to see because the street lights were so dim. The man seemed to be asking for her purse, and she was refusing. He then proceeded to pull out a knife and thrust it into her middle. The woman fell, and the man ran away with her purse. She laid there for a while in a pool of a dark red liquid that was seeping from where she had been impaled. A large amount of guilt and sadness filled my mind. I was so upset about not being able to do anything, I wanted to scream.

She laid there for about half an hour until another man walked by and shook her, only to find out what I had already known for what seemed like forever. He phoned for the police and they soon arrived, cleaning up the sidewalk and taking the body away. It was the first time that I ever thought about death. Would the same happen to me?

The next morning my new mother came in and prepared to wash me off for the start of the day. As she walked toward me, she twisted her foot and because of her tall stilettos and she began to fall. This all happened in extreme slow motion. On her way down towards the floor, she grabbed my frame and pulled me down with her. I crashed into the cold hard floor and I began to see thousands of different points of view at once, all over the room.

This was my time, I felt the life draining out of my body. This was my death day. My final memory was feeling my new and last mother sweep up my pieces into a dark dustpan, and eventually pouring my remains into the dumpster. It was all darkness and coldness, and then nothing…

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This article has not been reviewed by Odyssey HQ and solely reflects the ideas and opinions of the creator.

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