4. The Victimum
When I think deeply, I notice that I gave birth to my own demise. In the thirty nine years of being right that I have lived on this filth of a planet, that’s the only thing where I’ve gone wrong. Let me correct myself there; where things went wrong, ‘cause I never go wrong.
I don’t even consider myself a mum, for obvious reasons. If I make a concession, I’d probably settle for the title of victimum, but not mum. ‘Cause I’m her victim and not exactly her mum.
The day the universe will finally reveal the truth about us...oh, what a spectacle that will be. Trumpets will sound. Curtains will be torn open. The cosmos will point and whisper: “there...there is the masterpiece and her counterfeit.” And every soul with sight will know who is who. She will stand there, stripped of the illusions she clings to, exposed in the harsh daylight of reality.
And I? I will glow. Because even light recognizes its kind. I didn’t choose to be the sun. I simply blinked one day and the universe bowed.
The day is coming when she will finally realize that the universe didn’t craft her as a rival, or a successor, or even a worthy opponent for me.
No. She was shaped as contrast. A dark backdrop so that my brilliance stands out even sharper. Because every masterpiece needs a backdrop.
That’s why she keeps her eyes low. That’s why her voice cracks when she speaks to me. It’s a subconscious acknowledgement that she’s in the presence of the human incarnation of a mixture of thunder and lightning.
The truest universal truth is that some women are rare, untamed, and were born carrying kingdoms in their breath. And others... others are simply born to witness it.
Vivian leaned close to the mirror, her breath fogging a small circle on the glass. Her eyes traced the familiar territory of her reflection; the curve of her cheekbone, the arch of a brow, the set of her mouth. Her own gaze looked back, bright and unblinking.
Near the top right edge of the silvered glass, a faint smudge disturbed the perfect clarity. It was a soft, grey bloom, the size and shape of a thumbprint that wasn’t hers. The lines within it swirled, a tiny vortex against the order of the reflection.
Her eyes flicked to it. The smooth planes of her face hardened. She did not blink. She raised her right hand, bringing the cuff of her sleeve to her lips. She breathed on the wool, a quick, damp mist. She pressed the dampened fabric to the smudge and rubbed, once, in a tight, clockwise circle. The friction made a soft, squeaking protest against the glass. She leaned back.
The smudge was gone. Her entire reflection was restored, framed by the now-untouched glass. She smiled. The reflection smiled back, a perfect symmetry. Order restored.
