My reflection glares back at me. She's angry with me. She hates me.

You must tell someone.

I shake my head, "I can't."

Her jaded, cold green eyes narrow at me, Why not?

I sigh. My hands grip the edge of the white porcelain sink so tightly my knuckles have paled, "Because I don't know what to say."

She shakes her head. Her jacket is ripped to shreds and her hair is a tangled mass that falls down her shoulders. Her mascara stains her cheks but she doesn't care. Her arms are folded across her chest, unyielding. If you just open your mouth, the words will come. I will make sure of that.

I know she means well. I know she wants to help me, but I also know how mad she is. How dangerous. If I let her out of the mirror, will I be able to hide her again?

Suddenly she wails, I can't believe you! I'm dying right in front of your eyes! Can't you see!? She smacks the mirror, beats it with her fist. You have to let me out!

I watch her as she has another of her fits. It's almost like a child's tantrum, but with a pang of desperation behind it. I've seen this before, so I don't flinch as she screams at the mirror and pulls on her hair. Fresh tears streak down her face, turned black by her make up.

I hate her. I've always hated her. Because of these fits. Because she can do this. If I ever cry or complain about anything I get yelled at. Scolded. Because I have to be perfect. Or at least pretend to be.

Happy smile. Happy life. Happy me.

Suddenly she rips open a drawer. My eyes narrow; this is new.

After fumbling in the contents for a moment, she pulls out one of my brothers razors.

"What are you doing?" my heart is beginning to pound.

She holds the razor to her temple. Presses hard.

I can feel the cold metal on my skin; feel the bite of the razor. I bring my hand to my face, but of course nothing is there.

She is doing this. Not me.

She slides it down her face – from her temple to her chin. Fat blood boils to the surface and spills over like a river. It looks like a crimson waterfall falling down her face.

I feel it too. Liquid fire and lightning pain. It pulses through my head and makes it hard to think.

She's never gone this far. Maybe she's finally broken. She laughs, manic, and pulls on the wound, allowing more blood to spill out.

This pain in my head...I can't take it!

A loud crash. Glass shards falling. I pull my hand back, wincing at the pain in my hand. My blood drips down and stains porcelain.

I gaze past the cobwebbed glass where over a hundred angry girls glower back at me, their faces all weeping blood.

I start as another loud bang tumbles through the air and a voice rings in my ears. "Hurry up! We have to go!"

My brother. Slowly and without looking at the mirror, I pick out the bits of glass from my knuckles. Into the garbage they go.

I wash out the sink. The water stings my broken skin. More crimson rises to the surface and replaces th e blood that slips down the drain.

"Come on!" He's impatient.

If you go, you will die. Her voice, full of contempt for me, is low and threatening.

"Maybe I don't care. At least then you'll be dead too."
I walk out and shove past my brother. I hear him swear. He must have seen the mirror.

I ignore his questions and keep walking. My burning hand drips blood onto white carpet. Bread crumbs that lead me back to my demon. Maybe it's not her who has broken.

Maybe it's me.


A/N: Okay, this one was a bit more confusing, I think. I had to explain it to a few people. So I'll go ahead and do this here so no one else asks. The girl bottles up all her emotions so that she seems like a happy go-lucky good girl to her friends, family, to the world. The bottled emotions have become another personna in her mind, reflected only in the mirror. The girl and the reflection are the same person, but the reflection is angry and upset that the girl won't let her out. That the girl won't talk to anyone or express any emotion other than happy. The reflection is literally going mad, as is the girl. Or maybe it's just the girl. I dont' know. It's kind of a quicky and kind of a true story. Sorta. :) Parts of it.

But I'll let you decide which part is true for yourself.

~Chryssa