In the mirror, you study your face. Everyone does this, you think, practices different faces: pouting like a model, tightening your lips like you have a secret, hurling insults, or compliments, with only your eyes. Sure, you’ve been told you’re beautiful—usually by those who want something from you—but you’ve also been called out for every little imperfection, torn down to nothing, piece by piece. Because when people look at you, what they see is a reflection of themselves.

You look and look and look until your features blur. You are everything and nothing. It’s terrifying. It’s thrilling. You smile. The mirror smiles back, playing the game you’ve played since you were little. You’d watch yourself laugh, which people loved. Because it made them funny, even if they weren’t. You’d watch yourself cry: the downturned mouth, the blotchy skin. People loved that too, you realized. It made them strong by comparison. It made them caring, sympathetic. Or else victorious, if they were the source of your tears.

Like a mirror, you told them how to behave, who to be, what to do. Mirror, mirror, on the wall… Give everyone what they wanted, and you could leave with so much more. Everyone thought they knew you, when really no one knew you at all.

A little depressing, how easy it is to become invisible.

You’d be surprised, though, how easy it is to get away with murder.