What Happens To a Pretty Girl

In the solitude of her bedroom, Jane admired her skin in the reflection of her vanity mirror. The soft glow of the lamp illuminated her features, highlighting the etching of age around her eyes and the gentle lines that traced her smile. 

She had always been a pretty girl. She remained a pretty woman too. Everyone knew kindness to radiate just as strongly off her body as the glow of her skin. But when her skin lost its youthful radiance and instead began to sag with the passage of time, Jane felt the sharp edge of sadness. The mirror, once a source of deep comfort, now seemed to magnify each imperfection, every line and crease that marked the passing years. She longed for…she didn’t know what she longed for. 

It wasn’t the innocence of youth. That was for sure. Jane had long outgrown that stage of her life. But though she wouldn’t admit it aloud, she craved the attention that came with youth, the reassurance in her femininity. 

It’s a fucked up world we live in – a society fixated on youth and beauty. But for an aging woman, that appears to be the reality. Though it slightly disgusted her, she enjoyed the stare of awe she once received walking down the street in her youth. 

Jane couldn't deny the satisfaction she felt when heads turned and eyes lingered a little too long. It was a fleeting validation, a reminder that she still possessed a certain allure. Now, that allure wasn’t necessarily gone – she was still Jane – but  “her beauty came from within.” Jane had heard that phrase a million times from a million different people but it never quite resonated as deeply as she, or the people who loved her, would have hoped. 

It had been maybe ten minutes now of Jane staring at her reflection, lost in a swirl of thoughts and emotions. It was at that moment that she felt a twitch in her lip, a subtle quiver of frustration that rippled through her skin. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into the palms of her hands, as a surge of defiance washed over her. She looked at herself one more time. Each pore felt like a crater. Sunspots scattered her face like permanent smudges of dirt. The lines of her non-existent smile seemed to deepen each day. 

With a quick and primal roar, Jane’s clenched fist shot out towards the mirror. It was a swift and violent motion. Calculated but uncontrollable. 

For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the echo of Jane’s steadily beating heart. 

Jane rose calmly from her chair, flattening the wrinkle in her skirt. She picked the shards of glass out of her skin. Washed the blood off her hand. And quietly made her way down the stairs. 

Strike Out,

St. Louis

Written by: Sadie Rosen

Edited by: Emily Bekesh