This was a moment of decision. I walked into the dining room and picked up a chair. I turned around and carried it with me into the bathroom. Quietly, I placed it down and sat. And waited. She looked at me with dark-rimmed eyes, through the glass. Her hair and lips were blood red; blatantly out of context to the black make-up and clothes she wore. She shone, like something wild. I never understood how the blue-green tiles that framed her also imprisoned her. It was comical, an angry beast restrained with clay. Her grins were frightening. I, on the other hand, was only capable of a Pleasant Smile. My hair was demurely (though fashionably) tied back in a ponytail (not exploding like a halo around my face, not like her). Only the lightest amount of make-up ever graced my features and I only ever wore lip-gloss. My mother told me red lipstick was for sluts. Jewellery was for special occasions, when giggling could be sanctioned. She on the Other Side of The Glass smiled in a feral, and most unladylike, fashion. She gave me a many ringed, one finger salute, 'Get over yourself.' I sighed with relief; she was talking to me! She glared, 'It isn't that big a deal, what kind of freak talks to themselves in a mirror, anyway?' 'A me kinda freak.' 'Well, you said it, I didn't.' 'You are me.' No I'm not.' That always hurt me the most, the fact that she was right.

For a while I thought I was schizophrenic. Seeing myself talking in the mirror, only not. She was very much a part of me. No, she wasn't my physical reflection. She was reflection of repression. I never acted like her, like that, like them. I saw them though (girls like her), girls who laughed loudly, who dressed in black or knee-high rainbow socks. Girls that kissed boys full on the mouth at train stations, in front of everyone. I don't know when I started seeing her in the mirror. It took a while. She just merged out of my mundane reflection, over time. I know why, too.

I was 12.

I remember my first day at high school, everyone was so tall, so mature. For the first time I saw Religion, English, Mathematics. all from a different point of view! Subjects could be pointless. Subjects could be meaningful. Everyone used 'fuck' for emphasis! Art could have substance. Art, how I loved that the most! I took to it well. I could paint my feelings, not just draw 2 dimensional dogs and ducks. Colours were about emotion, or so my teacher told us. My teacher was strange and eccentric, I couldn't have worshipped anyone more! She dressed in strange colours and wore thick glasses, the essence of artistic cool. She taught me about styles, techniques, composition. These were so new to me. I took advantage of it too. I learnt the power of 'metaphor.' God quickly became a duck because I had the chance to read Leunig. For my last assignment, I painted a woman brandishing a paint brush. It was dripping red like blood. Gruesome, I'll admit, but that wasn't the point. Now I think it was a childish attempt at something grand but then. It had seemed to have such meaning. To me, it felt as though what I created was a part of myself.

She On The Other side of the Glass, the me I have forgotten.

I remember, I thought that taking away my pencils or my paints would be like cutting off a limb. I was right, too. My parents didn't like what I made. They didn't understand, they just thought I was mad. They pulled me out of art class, threw out my drawings and my supplies. I was as weak as if I'd lost a litre of blood.

Sometimes She reaches out her hand to me.

The one thing that kept me going, was that my art teacher had my 'bloody painting.' In one painting at least, that part of me was still alive. The person with red hair, black and clothes. A girl who kissed boys in train stations and had knee high rainbow socks.

'No,' she tells me.

'No,' I reply.

No, I would never have behaved like that. That would be how She would act. Black and white but no grey, two sides of a coin. How do I become what I should have been? Not rebellious but not obedient to a fault. Able to tint my hair, wear pink lipstick, paint interesting things, think outside my four walls.

Alice through the looking glass, discover who you are.

Shards of glass and blood make patterns on the floor, She and I, are we once more.