She faced the mirror for one last time, and as she did, twenty years passed before her eyes. She had last seen herself when she was in her prime. It was all so different, she could hardly recognize herself, but for the green eyes, her most sacred endowment, her beautiful eyes.
Through these years, she has surely looked at the mirror innumerable times, but never had she cared to watch. Today she did. Her face still glowed, much like the last time, but a lot paler, denuded of the well reputed vitality. It was shaggy, like old drapes covering abandoned furniture. She noticed that her face had more features and marks now, with newly formed hills and craters. In the past, what was a continuous terrain with smooth surface, had now developed local variations in skin texture. Her eye bags were dark and several canals ran conjointly through them. Her cheeks were freckled through several years of neglect. They rebelled with their pores and dark spots.
Her hair thinned and grayed over these years, she has never noticed it so well as she did today. She must have been aware of these developments but the differences couldn’t have been so prominent if she hadn’t been looking at herself after so many years. She felt scared of her own reflection, as if it were someone else, an uglier version of herself, her own ghost.
They say celebrities never grow older, they just become better liars. She wasn’t a celebrity in the contemporary sense; she was once a public figure alright, but that was when only few such personalities could be managed in the limited bandwidth of the media limelight. Celebrity-hood is a bastardy today. She would have been a top notch, had this been her day, but then, her time was a long way back. She doesn’t regret it, not any more.
There wasn’t a sure reason as to why she chose to stare at herself today. Why today? Why Stare? Why care to? Perhaps there is a predetermined destiny, if not, then surely there is fate. Fate is invariably related to the doom. When we use the term “fateful” we don’t talk of the person who won the award, we speak of him who didn’t and died. This was her fate. She looked at the scars of time on her face, the deflated jaw bones, the wrinkled epidermis. This was invariably the end.
A medical bulletin reported a drug overdose. Her long-time psychiatrist couldn’t confirm if she was a regular to drug abuse. The media speculated. That is their core skill; they report facts and speculate for the blanks and gaps that remain. Her followers were few in number, fewer than that of a teenager drama queen in Facebook or a nerdy “know-it-all” technocrat on twitter. One would think they care, only in the limited sense of care that could be attributed to curiosity.