Filthy and cracked, the mirror was intoxicating.
The second the girl had spotted her reflection in it, she became sick.
Never had she felt so broken. In her twisted mind, shattered glass danced around, perforating her vision and disguising who she really was. It felt like the fabric of reality was torn, flapping behind her in the wind, a constant reminder that she would never be able to fly. As she stood in that bathroom, dejected, she grew weaker by the minute.
There wasn’t much left before she was over anyways. Simply put, her organs had been vandalized. They reminded her of the pieces of that always toppled Jenga tower at her favorite coffee shop. No matter how she tried to put them back, they didn’t seem to fit in their box. Stained with the marks of accidents like spit, gum, hair, and ink, people had transformed them into something unrecognizable.
She eyed her mother’s pink razor, sitting on the bureau, gleaming under the LED lights. Then, her bloodshot eyes caught a glance of the bottle of shaving cream. Laughing in a possessed sort of manner, the girl picked up the former.
She shook off the excess water droplets and tossed it up in the air a few times. She wanted to be sure it was real. If she was going to make her way out of here, she would do it properly.
As she slid it across her thigh, she applied little to no pressure. The absentminded motion was a sign of her trying to make up her mind about something. Maybe, she was hesitating, or possibly even daydreaming, lost in wonderment at what it would be like if one of her wounds were visible on the outside for once.
The harder she pressed, the less she slid. There was no doubt that she was afraid. Hands trembling, she placed the razor on the sink. The girl couldn’t go through with it.
The devil teased and taunted the girl for her weakness, flicking his forked tongue into her ear. She slapped at him, hoping the constant buzzing she was hearing would cease.
Besides, a girl on a mission could never be stopped.
Yet, she looked around, trapped in the shell of the prison, a prison with unlocked doors. She wondered, for the first time in a while, whether or not it possible to become a slave to yourself.
When she looked in the mirror again, the girl jumped. Blinking hard, she hoped for some magical hard reboot in her brain. But when she opened her eyes, the reflection in the mirror was the same as the one that had spooked her. Replacing her concave silhouette and visible ribcage stood a maroon man, with a smirk that was either charming or petrifying, and horns that were unimaginably sharp.
The girl laughed for the second time, picking up the familiar object lying on the sink. And she began to draw.
She drew everything she visualized. Her milky white, taut skin was replaced with crimson, oozing fat that enveloped her whole figure.
She was an artist, a prodigy. In centuries to come, generations would refer to her breathing canvas as the sole inspiration of all future brilliance.
It was ironic how it made her feel. It was thick and slick and burned her skin, but it wasn’t hot.
No, it chilled her to the bone. To be fair, so did the summer air and the thick sweatshirts she always wore. But this was a good kind of cold.
Looking down at her completed work, the girl grinned from ear to ear. The hash marks and Xs that tattooed her body were the bright red stamp of rejection. But today, it meant something else. The girl was one step closer to being a girl again. Still, there was something left to be desired. One last touch to be added.
And then it hit her.
Pulling the lipstick brush out of the tube for the final time that night, she applied a generous coat to her lips as well.