She stared into the eyes of her own reflection. The faded-blue iris’ swelled to distortion by the deep, long-buried tear’s swelling up at the edges of their swollen, puffy rings. Her stare is coldly returned as she lets her
shattered mind wander back. The
tears begin to slip out, running a slow trail down her reddened cheeks. She raises one
hand to her
face watching as her image in the
mirror does the same. Her doppelganger stares back. Watching her in turn. The tears’ trail is interrupted by her finger. She feels as the crack formed between her finger and face is filled, a minute river formed, just as, might have happened in those ancient legends, a lamenting goddess of creation filling the rivers, lakes and seas of the world with her tears at the death of an eternal lover. New life, new beginnings borne of her strife, new lives come in the wake of tragedy. Her reflection gazing out at her from her dirty glass home like a mother gazes into the face of her child having just endowed an important lesson. Loving, yet patronizing.
I don’t know how!
She lashes out, shattering her image into thousands of glittering pieces.
A thousand fractured memories all taken from me, taken along with every other piece of me. He was me. I was him for Christ’ sake!
She slams her hand’s down. Striking down with such unintended force she can feel the cracking of bone in her clenched fist, the sharp pain barely a distraction in lieu of the pain of loss, an agony deeper than any physical wound. She looks down and numbly stares as blood seeps from her hand, her mind slow in piecing together the facts.
The glass from the broken mirror.
Her shattered life.
Her soft, fragile flesh.
She lifts her hand from the cold porcelain, watching as blood rapidly runs from the deep wound cut by the glass in the meat of her fist. Her mind racing, slowing the world around her nearly to a standstill. The blood slowly dripping, splashing into the crimson pool forming at her feet. With slow, agonizing deliberation she turns her hand until she finds herself staring at the gently pulsing veins of her wrist. Reaching out with her unharmed hand she lightly takes from the sink a fragment of glass, almost surgically sharpened.
The glass from the broken mirror.
Her shattered life.
Her soft, fragile flesh.
Without even being aware she makes her choice, and before her mind has time to fathom the horrible consequences of what she wills herself to do, the reflective fragment is arcing its way, dreamlike, towards that gently pulsing vein.
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