all the way back she talked about herself, and his love waned slowly with the moon. at the door, they started from habit to kiss good night, but she could not run into his arms, nor were they stretched to meet her as in the week before. for a minute, they stood there, hating each other with a bitter sadness. but as he had loved himself in her, so now what he hated was only a mirror. their poses were strewn about the pale dawn like broken glass. the stars were long gone and there were only little sighing gusts of wind and the silences between...but naked souls are poor things even and so he turned homeward and let new lights come in with the sun.

fear. fear. fear. fear of. fear fear fear. disillusionment is a terrifying thing. don't break the mirror.

It's the third night this week you haven't slept at all.

You don't want to sleep. You can't trust it. You have to go to bed later than her, get up earlier, and the only solution is to always be awake. It's taking its toll. Today, you were shaking. She commented on it; you knew she would.

You hate the sound of her voice. Criticizing, patronizing, taking you off your 'high horse' which you never knew how to ride. You hate this control she has over you, hate that when she says jump, you ask how high; when she says run, you ask how far.

It's no longer a question of whether or not you'll ever stand up to her.
It's a question of how long you can survive this.

You lift your hand to grab the counter, a shaking arm pulling yourself to your feet. The window above you -- because you'd been sitting against the wall - brings in just enough light for you to see yourself in the mirror.

In the moonlight, perhaps its your imagination. Perhaps fate saw fit to perform a trick and teach you a lesson. Maybe you just hadn't noticed it till now. Either way, you look in the mirror, and a few seconds later, you don't see yourself.

You see her.

Anger flashes; you're unsure how, but the mirror shatters. Pain erupts as broken pieces of your own reflection rain down around you, pricking into you. Your pride hurts more than your skin, but now there's blood everywhere.

Holding back tears, you bite your lips to keep from screaming, looking into shards of glass protruding from your hand, reminding you what you've become.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.