Kupu-kupu

By Jasmine Tepper

A breathy sigh.

When the door clicks close, one weight replaces another. Her coat, half removed, sweeps across her bare feet and brushes the floor as she walks. The woman slouches in front of her creaky wooden vanity with the uneven legs and powdery makeup stains. A crooked picture of her younger Oma dangles from the corner where carved wood meets glass, her eyes averted. The woman massages Cap Lang oil into her temples to combat thoughts that drum against her skull. Its aroma, the kind the men outside call after her for and beg to drown in, carries shame in its wafts. Her room is a cluttered mess of accessories that sell a delusion – a radio that loops discordant shrill flutes and clashing gongs, cheaply printed batik tapestries that started fraying years ago, and splitting rattan lamps that splatter the room in speckled starlight. Only she could recognize the nonsense of it all, and at least they cover the sticky, yellowing walls. Wishing they would cave and swallow her up, she begrudgingly looks up into her mirror. Like every night, she takes down her brass hair comb engraved with fluttering butterflies. Her own brown eyes staring back, she runs her fingers through her cascading black hair. 

Woman: “Hello.”

As she wipes her face with a napkin, she notices how her reflection mimics everything – from the way she pushes the hair out of her eyes to the rise and fall of her chest. Every movement is copied, but her lips. 

The woman chuckles.

Woman: “This again?”

Reflection: “Again.”

The woman winces at Reflection’s familiar soft sing-song tone. The woman’s mouth clamps shut like she’s too afraid to speak, but an agitated huff escapes through. Days bleeding into years, she’s been pestered by this warped replica, a sick joke.

Part of their routine dance, they move in towards each other, as if to peer into the other’s world. Reflection is more a resemblance than a splitting image. Her cheeks are always flushed, full of life compared to the woman’s pallid look. Her chin tilts slightly downwards, making her face appear smaller and as though her almond eyes permanently plead for something. She meets the woman’s scowl with the sweetest smile etched into her face, the kind that makes men feel important. Somehow, her skin glints even in the dim lighting, smooth and shimmery.

Woman: What do you want?

Reflection: What do you want?

Woman: Still can’t make your own words?

Reflection: Your own words.

Annoyed, the woman begins to stand up. She scoffs.

Woman: I’m not doing this. I can’t keep looking at some…shell. A fantasy! I don’t need you.

Reflection: Need you.

The woman rolls her eyes.

Woman: My god, you make us look so weak. You’re too pathetic. Sit down.

Reflection sits, modestly so that her dainty fingers cross in front. Reflection bats her eyes, waiting. The woman remains standing above her, shaking her head.

Woman: Just sad.

Reflection: Sad?

Woman: It’s horrible. You know they replace you? One after the other. You’re not the first girl whose smallness they feel crazed over, and you’re not the last. It’s temporary. They like how you make them feel. It’s you who lets them bathe – fester – in their own ignorance, and they come out feeling cleaner, stronger, smarter. Then they leave, but you think you’re loved. 

Reflection (nodding): Loved.

Woman: No, you’re desired. You’re not even a real person, you’re somebody’s wants.

None of this gets through to Reflection. She giggles and shrugs. 

Reflection: Somebody wants.

A pause. Feeling defeated, the woman searches for the right words because buried under all the disdain, she feels sorry for Reflection.

Woman: Why don’t you say something? I mean, how do you really feel?

Reflection: How do you really feel?

Woman: Please! 

The woman gets up, she paces, then sits back down. Her eyes start to water out of frustration until she finds the strength to look back up.

Woman: I know you’ve seen what I’ve seen, experienced what I’ve experienced.

Reflection: Seen what I’ve seen. Experienced what I’ve experienced.

Woman: Don’t you recognize the way they toss you around? You’re nothing to them, you’re empty. They think you’re frail!

Reflection: You’re empty. You’re frail.

Woman: No! I’m angry! Don’t you feel angry?

Reflection: Angry?

Woman: Speak! Speak! Come on! Open your mouth!

Reflection stays silent. The woman is bubbling up with anger and hot tears finally stream down her cheeks. She lets out a frustrated groan and pounds the vanity. Reflection is unfazed, quiet and passive as ever.

Woman: How do you sit there and take it? Don’t you wish you were heard?

Reflection: Don’t you wish you were heard?

The woman screams. She runs her hand through her hair again, this time, a clump falls out. As she drops it, she peeks at the nail imprints embedded in her palm from every time she squeezed her words into nothingness in order to keep up a perfect silence. She skims the surface of her face and body, feeling every crease, scar, and harsh memory her silence has viciously brought. Leaving this trance, she looks back at Reflection enraged.

Woman: Look what happens if you don’t speak! You did this! You! Look at me!

Reflection: …look at me.

Woman: No! Look at me! The lines, the streaks, the way my heart weighs me down so much it hurts to walk! This is what you really look like! This is us!

Reflection sits up, sweetly, chin in palm.

Reflection: This is you. This is us.

Woman: No! You’re not real! I don’t want this anymore!

Reflection: Want. Want. Want.

Woman: Stop! You’re not real! 

Reflection: Real!

Woman: No! No! No!

Elicited by the pressure of every version of herself forcibly tied to a crushing cycle of ache, humiliation, and cruelty, she swipes her brass butterfly comb from the vanity and, aiming at the hollow imitation of her own eyes, launches it at the glass. The contact sends out an echoing, and somehow melodic, crash.

A gasp.

Jasmine is a junior at NYU CAS studying psychology and double-minoring in CAMS and English. She was born and raised in Los Angeles, California, and jumps at any opportunity to connect with her Indonesian heritage. In her free time, she obsesses over finding new bookstores to browse, growing her Calico Critters collection, and anything Snoopy-related.