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2015-05-26 04:38 am (UTC)
stranger in the mirror (tw: self harm)
Your reflection is a lie.
What you see is a stranger.
Be it in the glass in the windows or the mirror, that person looking back at you is wearing a face that isn't yours. You feel it every morning when you wake up. The smooth skin across your face. It enrages you, makes your blood boil at the thought that your father had taken away something recognizable and replaced it with a fraud.
face, of course. But all the flaws that had once been there are now smoothed over, healed, the scars that had once maimed you gone. Why did father have to do this? He claimed that it was to help you recover from your past demons, help us start over. But you don't
to start over. You can't. And those demons are still ever-present, chiding you, reminding you that a new, pretty face will do nothing. Throughout your previous lifetimes, all those women you had once been, those scars had been the one constant.
For the last few years you've gotten used to stumbling around the rooms in this Chicago townhouse in the dark. After memorizing the walls and corners and objects in the way, you can simply avoid that liar in the mirror.
She mocks you now, her shape in the shadows when you enter that bathroom vaguely visible and copying your every movement. Because she is you, and you are her, just like you have been all of those other women as well. They're part of you. All of them.
And yet that reflection is a lie. A joke, a mask, something that has been covering up an important part of your life.
The light shining through the room behind you reveals the liar in the mirror. Her smooth, pretty face looking at.
"You're not better than me..." You mutter under your breath, your hand balled into a fist. You see the stranger, green eyes are wide and crazed and hungry. "You're not...
BETTER THAN ME."
Without warning, without any hesitation, your fist swings with all the mighty force of a battering ram, shattering the glass before you into a thousand, thousand tiny fragments, and a thousand, thousand bulging eyes just staring. Staring. The pieces clatter, making a beautiful sound as they crash downward over the counter, into the wash basin. So many...
Hearing your own rough breathing, the adrenaline still rushing through your veins, you look down into the basin to find a convenient shard that reminds you of a knife. It cuts into your hand when you clench your fingers around it, pulling it out of the basin. And still, the stranger watches you from within. You hate that stranger. You can't stand her. You can't bear the sight of her. You hate her. You hate that look on her face.
STOP STARING LIKE THAT. YOU'RE NOT BETTER. STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP. YOU'RE NOT BETTER JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE PRETTY, PRETTY, PRETTY.
The searing edge of the shard cuts deep through your own skin, sliding across your cheek. You do it again, and again, and again, until you can feel several hot bloody streams running down your face, gushing from your shaky hand. It's a familiar feeling. The first thing you recognize in years since you've been cooped up in this goddamned city.
It stings, but you feel them now. Your left cheek, now bearing a cross-shaped bloody mark, and another horizontal one across your chin. The right side of your face is marred by a diagonal scar below your eye, another across the side of your forehead, and a vertical gash sliding from under your jaw. The pain, the warm blood, the feeling is soothing when you feel a part of you coming back while the stranger is slowly dying. In spite of the chaos, the red-soaked bathroom, you feel in control again.
Don't worry. It's only skin.
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