I turn abruptly, hearing the words, “I hate you!” I don’t enjoy feeling that way, but it happens. I look into the mirror, searching for a reaction from my reflection, but none. I pick up a tube of lipstick and start painting my lips on the mirror.
“Talk to me,” I demand, hitting my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Stupid, stupid, stupid fool.” I hear the face in the mirror say, “Stop it.” I set down the tube and draw big eyes with a black eyebrow pencil. “Now, can you see me?” I ask the reflection.
I hang my head low, feeling dejected, and eventually slump to the floor, my knees lock onto my chest. I fall asleep, and time passes. The only sound is the silence. I love the nothingness of nothing.
Phyllis Souza lives in Northern California and is retired from a long real estate career. After taking several on-line writing classes, she started writing flash fiction and short stories. Her stories have been published in Café Lit, Spillwords, Scarlet Leaf, and Friday Flash Fiction.