She woke up on the verge of a scream.

Shivering in the dark of her own bedroom, she reached out to pull back the covers that her bare legs had kicked away during the fit of a nightmare. The cold air seemed to press in around her, and she buried her body underneath the heavy quilt as if she might find some form of safety there.

The dream had been cold, as well. Face to face with a darkened mirror, a distorted image of her own face screamed out at her, pressing against the glass with long, white fingers. She tried to back away but found herself riveted to the mirror, unable to move or flinch. The girl who was not her twisted and turned, pulling at her tangled hair with blue-veined hands. She opened her mouth in a gaping yawn and something dark poured out. She screamed, "You're alone, you're alone, you're alone."

No, the real girl thought, awake, as a final spasm chilled her body. "Alone" didn't even begin to describe it.

She tiredly began to shut her eyes, but the haunting dream still lingered so strongly in her mind that she didn't want to sleep again. It was too real. It was too hard to escape.

Sighing shakily, she pushed herself up on her elbows and turned on the lamp beside her bed. Immediately her eyes revolted against the burst of blue and white spots that pulsed blindingly in the sudden flood of light. She blinked repeatedly, a brush of brown lashes over two gleaming aquamarine eyes. Slowly they adjusted and she made out the numbers on the nightstand clock: 3:30.

A groan escaped her lungs. Four more hours and she would be leaving for school. If these nightmares kept up, she would never get any sleep.

Turning to sit up, she habitually glanced down at her uncovered arms. A scab had opened halfway up her forearm and was bleeding lightly. Her gaze wandered along the criss-crossing lines that dotted her arm and the thin skin of her wrist like intricate needlework. And it was all very calm, very rehearsed, after all. But sometimes she almost forgot that the scars were there, and it would take only one unguarded look for all the memory and guilt to come flooding back, reawakened.

I know I promised, she thought, tracing a red line with one finger along her wrist. But it doesn't seem worth it anymore.

Outside there was a sudden rumbling of thunder. A tapping sound against the bedroom window, and then another. Then a whole smattering of droplets, and it was raining.

It was as if the thunder had said, Listen.

The young girl shivered involuntarily as the rain sounds crescendoed to a soft roar outside of the house. She glanced up at the watery reflections shimmering on the window, and unintentionally caught a glimpse of the mirror across the room. An image of her nightmare flashed through her memory. She was almost afraid to look--afraid of what she might see. She half expected to see a broken reflection of herself, dark and disfigured and screaming out blood.

But the girl in the mirror stared back intently: turquoise eyes, a soft oval face, and straight, light brown hair piled messily on her head. She was the same. She was herself again.

A peal of thunder shook the windowpanes, and she jumped. She could see herself clearly now, so why did she still feel afraid? The evidence was there in front of her; why did the dream still haunt her?

She knew the truth as well as she knew every scar on her body. That girl in the mirror, the normal-looking girl whose face everyone else saw, that girl was not her. Only in her dreams did she let her true self appear, and she knew why she feared to be face to face with herself. The dying girl trapped inside the mirror, the screaming girl with hollow eyes and outstretched arms, that was the real her.

The real Jen Brady.