by Marketa Dowling
M
You’re putting that kohl pencil around your eyes again. The mirror balanced on your knees, speckled with age, catches the dim light from the heater Mom left out for you. Round and round you go, black on black, your hand shaking but determined. Stop it, I say. You don’t look up. The pencil keeps moving, circling. I haven’t seen you in three years; I live on the other side of Europe, as far from you as I could go without leaving the continent entirely. But I’m home for Christmas, and here you are in our parents’ garage. You’re not allowed into the house anymore – the door at the top of the stairs stays locked. Your daughter – do you know she turned nine in October? – hid under the table every time you came in, shut her eyes and covered her ears, so she wouldn’t hear you roar and shout. The social services said it was fine to keep you away from her. Necessary even. Stop it, I say again. Your hand pauses. You tilt your head, examining yourself in that cloudy glass like you’re someone worth examining. Why? you say. Not to me. To the mirror. Because you’re better than this, I say. Because your daughter asks about you. Because Mom cries every morning when she wakes up before Dad. Round goes the pencil again. Round and round. We were born on the same day, three years apart. I didn’t know until school that not all siblings shared birthdays. I always resented it, that my special day had to be your special day, too. Now I’d give anything to share a birthday cake with you again, to blow out candles together like we used to. This year, there would be 99 of them. You prefer this, I say. You prefer this to us. The pencil stops. You look at me then, grey mouth, hollow cheeks, your eye sockets ringed in smudged black like terrible halos. I don’t prefer anything, you say. Then stop, I say. Just stop. Say you’ll try. Say you’ll.. You laugh. It’s not a laugh I recognize. It comes from somewhere hollow. You want me to say things? you ask. You want words? I want you back, I say. You return to the mirror, to the circling. Round and round. The pencil never seems to run out. Siblings are meant to go separate ways. I was sixteen and in love. You also found love then – yours turned out to be more lifelong than mine. I left for the city, for London, for Valetta. And you stayed, circling and circling. I’m right here, you say to your reflection. No, I say. You’re not. The heater hums between us, the blanket hanging on your shoulders smells of damp and something chemical I can’t name. Outside, it’s starting to snow. I watch your hand move, that endless circling, and I understand: you will never stop. Because you can’t. Because stopping would mean looking up from that mirror and seeing what I see.
K
The mirror is cool against my knees. The kohl pencil feels good in my hand, solid, something I can control. Round and round. Perfect circles. I’m making myself beautiful. Mother left the heater out for me again. I didn’t see her and even if I had, she never says anything, just goes up and locks the door. I don’t live here anymore. Stop it. I hear the voice but it’s far away, on the other side of the glass. I tilt my head. Nearly perfect now. Just a bit more on this side. Stop it. The voice again. Closer. I pause because the shaking in my hand is getting worse and I need it steady. Need to get this right. You’re back from England or wherever you live now. Running away like distance matters, like you can outrun blood. Why? I ask the girl in the mirror. She understands. She knows why the circles matter. Words come at me. Daughter. Mom. Dad. Crying. Better. Words like stones. I let them fall around me. They can’t touch me here, in front of my mirror. You didn’t know until school that most siblings had different birthdays. God, you were so stupid. So self-absorbed. I always resented it, that my special day had to be your special day, too. Now you’re standing here in your good coat, your clean hair, your life that nearly worked out. Only you are barren. I laugh because it’s funny, isn’t it? You think I prefer this. As if preference has anything to do with it. As if I chose the battered old heater, the blanket that smells wrong, the cold that lives in my bones even in summer. As if I chose the locked door, the yellowed, rickety plastic table. You want me to say things? I ask. Because I could say things. I could say all the right words and you’d leave and I could finish my face in peace. You say you want me back. Back where? Back to that house where everything was always too dull, too quiet, too little? Back to being the little sister who needed picking up, dropping off, looking after? Back to being second, always second, even on my birthday? I’m right here, I tell the mirror. You went off with your stupid boyfriend and left me on my own, remember? Didn’t last long with him. But I’m still here. I found my own people, didn’t need you after all. I can see it on your face. Poor tragic little sister with her life ruined. But you left first. You always left first. I’ll be right here, I tell the mirror. You don’t understand. This is me. This has always been me. The circles, the mirror, the beautiful girl looking back. Everything else – you, them, that life, the locked door – that was the dream. This is real. This pencil in my hand. Round and round it goes. Nearly done now. Nearly perfect.
Marketa Dowling (she/her) is a Czech-Irish writer and theatre and film professional. Her work has been, or is scheduled to be, published in Midnight Ireland Journal, the 2026 Scottish Arts Trust’s Edinburgh Anthology Series, The Honest Ulsterman, Flare Magazine and Moonlit Getaway. She writes and lives in the West of Ireland.
Photo by pexels-ahmetyuksek-35121805-scaled.jpg
