Not my face
“This… this is not me?..” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. I’m standing in front of the mirror again, though I don’t remember waking up or walking here. It’s always like this. Night comes, and I’m suddenly aware, already standing, already looking. The girl in the reflection is wrong. She’s tall, thin, her pale skin stretched unevenly across her face. Dark hair falls over her features, hiding most of it, but not enough. Never enough. I slowly push the hair aside and stare at what’s underneath, sunken eyes, uneven skin, something that doesn’t sit right no matter how long I look at it. “This isn’t me,” I whisper, more certain this time. I know her name. Morranna. Just something I know. I also know this is her body, her life, her face. But I am not her. I can feel that deep inside, like a truth that doesn’t need proof. My fingers press lightly into my cheek, testing it. The skin feels wrong, too loose in some places, too tight in others, like it doesn’t belong where it is. I turn away from the mirror and move toward the window. The apartment is quiet, but not silent. Pipes hum in the walls, footsteps echo faintly from above, and somewhere down the hall a television murmurs through thin walls. It all feels distant, just like I feel distant from this face. Outside, the city is alive. I press my hand against the cold glass and look down. People pass under streetlights, their faces briefly illuminated before fading back into shadow. I watch them without blinking, a man laughing, a woman adjusting her reflection in a car window, a girl walking alone with her head slightly down. Their faces are right. That’s the only way to describe it. Everything is where it should be. Nothing feels out of place. They belong to themselves in a way I don’t. My hand slowly rises to my own face again. I press harder this time. It’s an unreal feeling, being trapped inside something I’m not without knowing why. I keep watching. I don’t know how long. Time doesn’t feel real here. The longer I look, the more I notice, the shape of jaws, the balance of features, the way expressions move naturally across skin that fits perfectly. Then I see her. She’s standing under a streetlamp, not doing anything special. Just waiting. But her face is right. I can feel it, deep and certain in a way I can’t explain. “That one…” I murmur. After that, I don’t think. I just move. The apartment door opens quietly. My bare feet hit the cold ground outside, but I barely feel it. The night air brushes against my skin, my thin black nightgown barely covering me, the straps slipping off my shoulders. I follow her at a distance, my steps light and careful. Somewhere in my small chase, I notice the scissors in my hand, fully metal kitchen scissors. I don’t remember picking them up, but they feel familiar, like they’ve always been there. She turns down a quieter street. Less light. Less noise. I call out softly, “Excuse me.” She turns. I grab her. It’s messy. It’s always messy. She struggles immediately, her hands clawing at me, trying to pull away. I hold on tighter, my heart pounding, my breath uneven. “I just need it,” I whisper. “I just need your face.” The scissors press against her skin, warm and alive. Then I cut. The blades drag and catch. It isn’t clean, never clean. She fights, but it doesn’t last long. I don’t stop. I can’t. I need this to work. When it’s over, the street is quiet again. I go back to the apartment. Back to the mirror. My hands are shaking as I lift what I took. Slowly, carefully, I press it against my face, trying to align it, trying to make it mine. I freeze, staring at my reflection. It’s not as good as I expected. But the change, the slight difference, fills me with something close to joy. It feels like I’m one step closer to finding myself. A faint gray light begins to creep through the window. Morning. My body starts to feel heavy, distant, like I’m being pulled backward into something dark. I try to hold on, but I can’t. And then I feel her. Morranna. Coming back. There’s always a moment where we overlap, her confusion, my frustration, the body we share. She’ll wake up soon, standing in this same room, seeing the mirror, the blood, the scissors. She won’t understand everything, but she’ll feel that something is wrong. As I fade, slipping back into the dark where I wait, I hold onto one thought. Next time, I’ll find the right face.