If Only They Would Wash Me...

If Only They Would Wash Me…

Authors note: this is a short story that is one paragraph in length about the life of a mirror that says wash me.

Oh, how I long to be washed. I must have been here 14-no… perhaps 15 years and haven’t been washed yet. Me, on the third story of this apartment in this city. When I first started to see myself becoming dirty, (which I will remind you was not only from years of neglect but, also from the pollution of those cars and factories to which I live so close by) I quietly and ever so politely asked the family whose walls we share to please clean my surface. I never got even a glance or a response. As years went by my respectful asking became not unlike begging. The begging didn’t last long for, it became yelling and shouting over time. I simply thought that if the family could not sleep or function, they would wash me to silence my uproar, but I was wrong. Their wills seemed to be stronger than I suspected though, I did notice that they would look around in horror when I howled as if they didn’t know where I was. One day after I had made a whole lot of commotion the previous night, the sleep-deprived family seemed to be fighting, although I felt bad because this was not my intention, I felt that I was so close to my goal. After all it had only taken 9 years. About a week or so later, these strange people came into my apartment and took everything away. I never saw them again which is too bad. Aside from the fact that I was mistreated, they weren’t all that bad really. So, I’ve been here for six more years since then but, the odd thing is; nobody has moved into my apartment after they left. So now it seems that I have been left here to rot and, and still I have not been cleaned.