Grace’s vanity wasn’t the same pure, white color as other objects in the room; it was yellowed with age and the mirror was cracked from an unknown incident. It was antique. She opened her frail blinds and collected herself at her vanity, cross-legged like every morning, to perform her sacred morning routine; something that kept her grounded.
She brushed her hair with a hairbrush that was the same eerie, pastel color as every other item in the room. She changed into her light pink dress, its lace trim frayed from countless years of washing. She brushed soft makeup on her face; her complexion resembling a porcelain doll, hoping she could imitate its innocence.
She reaches for her mascara and knocks over an empty cup; the pieces sprawling all over the floor. Her head perks up to the door, frightened by the thought that someone heard it. She quickly picks up the pieces on the ground and inhales the sharp, rancid smell coming from a brown stain on the floor; she had spilled her hoard. She crawls to her bed, searching underneath it only to find empty bottles. She struggles to remember the night before, but it was no use.
She attempts to ground herself with deep breathing; sitting on the floor, staring at the rosary that hung from the top of the vanity. Each bead a question about her faith that she couldn’t withstand.
I can repent, I can be pure.
She reaches for the rosary. It trembles in her hand, feeling heavier than ever. Each bead carried the weight of an unsaid confession. She repeated her prayers as soft as a hymn, but was convinced they were swallowed by the weight of her sin.
She got lost in the repetition of her words, no longer grounded in prayer. The words started to sound flat as she continued to recite prayers she no longer believed could save her. The rosaries couldn’t undo the past. Her breathing became ragged as she tightened her hand around the rosary. The wood dug into her palm. She let the rosary fall to the floor, the beads scattering like tiny remnants of lost faith. The stuffed lamb that lay on the desk stared back with quiet judgment; a memory of an untarnished and ideal past that she yearns to get back. Her reflection betrayed her; her eyes wide and hollow.
She knelt to pick up each and every bead, but her sweaty palms couldn’t maintain a proper grasp on them. She stood, smoothing her dress as if it could make her feel clean again, convinced that her repentance could be woven into its threads. She knew God saw through her disguise. She wanted so badly to become pure again, but she was no longer a doll or a lamb. The color pink doesn’t wash away sin and the rosaries didn’t make her any less scared of God.
