The Face in the Mirror, Part II

There's a reason that there's a mirror behind the bar. Most think it's for some sort of aesthetic purpose, but in all honesty, its sole purpose was a rather simple one:

So you could see just how deep you were swimming in liquid obliviate.

Miyoko knew this, of course. It's why she never made eye contact with anything past the blond bartender's head.

As she finished another amaretto sour (she'd lost count of which one it was a while ago) she purposefully kept her eyes on her date. He smiled and talked to her, his eyes -- and thank god they were brown eyes -- lighting up as he spoke animatedly about a topic she wasn't paying much attention to. But it was better than potentially meeting the eyes of the girl behind the liquor bottles.

She knew very well that she was hiding, though she'd be the last to admit it. The club was full, the music was loud and pounding, people were dancing and singing drunkenly... and she was burying herself in those distractions like an ostrich with its head in the sand. So she was a pansy. Too terrified to chance a look at her reflection because she knew what she'd see. It was what she'd always find.

The face of a stranger, of a woman that she didn't know.

And it terrified her beyond belief that there was someone else taking over and doing the things she was doing.

In the end, though, temptation got the better of her, and she'd look before they left. And the face that she saw looked like hers, but in her eyes was something else, something foreign and strange. And behind that invasion was fear, blatant and pure.

So she'd drain the rest of her drink and run, grabbing her date's hand and leading him out of the club with a smirk on her face that wasn't her own. They'd go back to his place and they'd kiss, and then fall into bed, and then it would be over and he'd fall asleep and she'd roll away. And like Pandora with her box she'd open it and let it all out. She'd lay there and go over what had just happened and come face to face with the thoughts in her head.

How when she kissed him she imagined it was someone else.

How when he touched her, she didn't close her eyes because it felt good, but because she didn't want to remember that it wasn't who she wanted it to be.

How when they finished, it wasn't her date's voice she heard in her ear whispering good night, but his.

And then, silently, she'd cry. Mourn the loss, rage against how wrong it all felt. Pour out her heart and soul into the pillow, and then wipe her eyes and curl herself up next to the man in the bed with her. His arm would go around her and she'd close her eyes, pushing away the wish that it were him holding her close instead.

And the next day she'd wake up and smile at him, and kiss him, and pretend that she didn't want anything to do with the bastard that had broke her heart.

Like she'd never let the monster that was her mind out of its cage.

She'd trusted him. Put her hope into the words he'd whispered to her with love. Sometimes, laying next to a new stranger, she wonders if his ghost will ever let her love again.

(A/N: Please tell me what you think. Constructive criticism is much appreciated. Thanks for reading.)