Mirrors lie

Her apartment is unquestionably eclectic, a true reflection of her complex inner world. Here, styles are not merely mixed; they are intertwined like the threads of a carefully woven tapestry, each telling its own story. The walls are adorned with an array of paintings, some vibrant and bold, others muted and melancholic, each piece a memory of moments captured in the material. Every brushstroke seems to whisper secrets of the past, inviting the observer to delve deeper into the emotions they evoke. In the corner stands a tiny mirror with a silver amalgam, its surface darkened by the shadows of the past. This mirror, with its ornate frame, is not just a decorative object; it is a stark reminder of life, of a time when she was different – alive, real, filled with hopes and dreams. The mirror reflects not just her image but the essence of who she used to be, a version of herself that feels like a distant memory. She doesn't keep other mirrors at home because they reflect her. They are unnecessary because each one can tell the truth, and she can't bear that. The truth is often too heavy to carry, and she prefers the weightlessness of her carefully curated illusions. Every morning, she wakes up with the feeling that the world around her is changing, but she remains the same. The streets outside her window are filled with the hustle and bustle of life, a constant reminder of the relentless march of time. She watches as people rush by, their faces a blur, each lost in their own thoughts and worries. She is confident in her ability to adapt to the changing world around her. Time is relentless, and it doesn't spare anyone, even those who have deceived it. She knows full well that her eternal youth is a curse, not a gift. It is a paradox that keeps her trapped in a cycle of longing for connection while simultaneously pushing her further into solitude. Today, she is preparing to go to the opera. The opera is not just art; it is a ritual that she now fully appreciates. The anticipation builds within her as she selects her attire, carefully choosing a gown that speaks to her sense of self. She still loves the theatre more, with its raw emotions and live performances that leave an indelible mark on the soul. But it's cinema that really captivates her. The flickering images on the screen transport her to worlds beyond her own, allowing her to escape the confines of her existence, if only for a few hours. She recalls with clarity that in 1998, on the 16th of December, she watched an entire Japanese detective film. The investigation lasted three hours, and the film itself was three hours long. This pace is what she understands, a slow unraveling of mysteries that mirrors her own life. As she stands before the mirror in the hallway, fixing her hair, she can’t help but scrutinize her reflection. The delicate strands of her hair fall gracefully around her shoulders, framing her face in a way that feels both familiar and foreign. She knows mirrors lie. They show only the exterior and do not reflect the inner essence. She hates the girls in the cloakroom queue. They are a constant reminder of the superficiality that permeates the world around her. She has no interest in any of the three categories of women that surround her. The expensive dolls are no longer mere adornments for their husbands, and the theatre-goers in shabby shawls have no place here. The opera is not a venue for the intelligentsia, but rather a stage for the masquerade of life. She despises the hurried office ladies in trousers, rushing to claim their seats, their laughter echoing like hollow shells. They simply do not understand true beauty or art. They come here for entertainment and to show off, while she comes for emotions and to remember how to feel. The performance is awful. She shakes her head, feeling the excitement building in her chest. Her thirst doesn't torment her, but she's going to end the night with a hunt anyway. The thrill of the chase is intoxicating, a reminder of the vitality she once felt. She leaves the opera before the end, unable to endure the cacophony of false emotions any longer. Outside, a cold wind penetrates deep into her soul. It carries with it the scent of rain and the whispers of forgotten dreams. She strides through the streets, her presence ignored by the crowds. They rush about their business, completely unaware of what is happening around them. She is a ghost in this world, unknown and unnoticed, drifting through the lives of others like a wisp of smoke. Her steps are muffled, as if she is passing through the walls of time. In every alley, she sees reflections of her past – and she knows they are there, even if she cannot see them. She remembers how she once danced at balls, her laughter ringing out like music, a sweet melody that filled the air. She recalls the warmth of a partner's hand on her waist, the thrill of a shared glance that spoke volumes. She remembers the nights spent under the stars, dreaming of a future that felt bright and limitless. The sounds of a street musician's violin touch something deep inside her, and she makes a beeline for the nearest exit. The music resonates within her, awakening memories long buried beneath layers of time. The clubs reek of cheap perfume, cheap alcohol, cheap one-night girls, and cheap blood. She looks just over twenty, and her refined manners, learned nearly two hundred years ago, set her apart from the crowd. She flirts – subtly, but with a confidence that comes from within. It is a dance of words and glances, a game she knows all too well. She needs to show and say much less than these drunken louts can imagine, for she possesses a depth that eludes their grasp. A curly-haired boy dancing in the corner reminds her of her third husband. His carefree movements evoke memories of a time when she felt alive, when love was a tangible force that coursed through her veins. She was almost in love with him, but Serge met a very convenient end at Waterloo. The weight of that loss still lingers, a bittersweet reminder of the fragility of life and love. They were together for almost five years, and she hadn't aged at all. Memories of him are both sweet and bitter, a juxtaposition that haunts her. She doesn't drain the boy to unconsciousness in memory of Serge. Instead, she relishes the thrill of the chase, the intoxicating dance of seduction that leaves her breathless. For the cameras on every corner, her bite looks like a brief kiss, a fleeting moment of passion that holds no real consequence. This dazed fool will not tell what he will not tell after being charmed by a vampire and losing blood. No one will find out. The thrill of secrecy adds an exhilarating layer to the night, a reminder that she is still alive, still capable of feeling. Hiding is becoming more challenging. The morning chill is spreading through the city, and the sky is slightly grey, a reflection of her own mood. She looks at her reflection in the hallway mirror once more, searching for answers in the depths of her eyes. Mirrors lie – reflecting a young, flushed, unadorned girl, but her eyes have not learned to lie – a century and a half of solitude is perfectly visible. They reveal the truth of her existence, the loneliness that clings to her like a second skin. She knows that the reflection cannot reveal her true essence, what lies deep within her soul. It is a truth she has carried for far too long, a burden that weighs heavily on her heart. She longs for connection, for someone to see beyond the surface and recognize the complexities that make her who she is. Yet, she remains trapped in a world that values appearances over authenticity, where the masks people wear often obscure their true selves. As she wanders through the city, she reflects on the choices that have led her to this moment. Each decision, each relationship, has shaped her in ways she could never have anticipated. She thinks of the lovers who have come and gone, each leaving an indelible mark on her heart. Some were fleeting, like shadows that danced across her life, while others were more profound, their echoes lingering long after they were gone. She recalls the laughter shared over candlelit dinners, the whispered secrets exchanged in the dark, the moments of intimacy that felt like magic. Yet, with each connection, there was also a sense of loss, a reminder that nothing lasts forever. The passage of time has a way of erasing even the most vivid memories, leaving behind only the faintest traces of what once was. As the night deepens, she finds herself drawn to the flickering lights of a nearby café. The warm glow spills out onto the street, inviting her in like a siren's call. She steps inside, the familiar scent of coffee and pastries enveloping her like a comforting embrace. The chatter of patrons fills the air, a cacophony of voices that momentarily drowns out her thoughts. She settles into a corner booth, her gaze wandering over the faces around her. Each person is lost in their own world, their conversations a tapestry of lives intersecting for a brief moment. She sips her coffee, savoring the rich flavor, and allows herself to be swept away by the ambiance. In this space, she feels a sense of belonging, a reminder that even in her solitude, she is not entirely alone. As the hours pass, she observes the ebb and flow of life around her. Couples laugh and flirt, friends share stories and secrets, and strangers exchange knowing glances. She feels a pang of longing, a desire to be part of that world, to connect with others in a way that feels genuine. Yet, she knows that her existence is different, marked by a history that sets her apart. Eventually, she rises to leave, the weight of the night settling upon her shoulders. As she steps back into the cool air, she takes a deep breath, feeling the chill invigorate her senses. The city stretches out before her, a canvas of possibilities waiting to be explored. She walks with purpose, her heart beating in rhythm with the pulse of the night, ready to embrace whatever comes next. In that moment, she understands that while the mirrors may lie, the stories she carries within her are undeniably real. They are the threads that weave together the tapestry of her life, each one a testament to her resilience and strength. And as she continues her journey through the shadows, she knows that she will always seek the light, the moments of beauty that remind her of what it means to truly feel alive.