The mirror searched her face. It was an expression was so foreign, she could not believe it to be hers. The water ran out of the faucet, making gurgling noises as it created air pockets, going down the drain. Her toothpaste, contact case and face wash are aligned meticulously on the shelf below the cabinet. Labels all turned forward and lids tightly fastened. Water continued to splash down the sink drain as she stared absently at the girl in front of her. You've stolen my skin. She rigidly, slowly, began to raise her right hand, extending her twitching fingers forward, touching the face of this stranger in the glass. She jumped ever so slightly as her fingers met the glass. I didn't mean to frighten you.
She slid her fingers across the face. Anger grew inside of her, rapidly, restlessly, like ivy. With a stiff hand and a swift movement, fragments of the shadow girl went flying all around her. Her shrill cry rung through the bathroom like a ringing bell. The glass settled by her feet, her hands covered in blood, she turned off the faucet. Tears began sending black streaks of makeup down her cheeks. Her throaty squeals and moans of sadness filled the still air. Her eyes stung, burning like fire as the black clouded her vision. I can not be rid of your face. Slinking onto the cold tiled floor, the porcelain tub beside her, she leaned against the edge hanging her head. Her hands cupped and held out in front of her, blood began to make a small pool in her palm; a shard of mirror poking out of a wound. Her sobs subsided and the rage began to spout once more. She tore out the morsel from her flesh and let her lungs carry the pain in a river, outside of her.
Her screams were not in anguish, in sadness, nor in grief. Her screeches marked the sound of a harpy, born into the vastness that now consumed her. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, she got to her knees, searching the floor for a suitable shard. Once identified, she clasped it in her hand, ready for action. The glass was not thin enough to cut smoothly, not thick enough to prove defective, only perfectly adequate to do the deed. With teeth clenched and eyes dripping, growls escaped her lips as she destroyed her beauty. Silky blond strands hit the floor quietly. In mere moments, everything grew still. Silent. Serene. She got to her feet, holding the fragment at arms length, in front of herself. I've created true beauty. You can not have me. Her hair in matted uneven layers, just below her ears. You can not love the unsightly. I have conquered rejection.
She stands in front of the sink. Turns the faucet. The water is soothing on the bloody mess that was once her hand. She wipes the black stains that cover her face, smearing the evidence of emotion she'd just displayed. She turns the faucet off, turns, walking out of the door. Sleep. All is dark now. All is well. The sun will rise in the morning.
*This is an excerpt from my novel (that's half finished an semi-biographical) Pigeon Holes & Polaroids.
