"Even when a star dies, it gives birth to another one. It's mere existence is life and growth. One day I wish to be as infinite as the stars. To exist forever, if at least in their hearts."
When you left, you were not looking for a savior.
When he...
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They left you alone for five minutes.
Five minutes.
That was all it took for you to fall apart.
Your mother just woke up from a coma, how could you fool yourself into thinking you were ready for this? How could you be ready when not even the nightmares have stopped? When your mind has become so fragile that your worlds no longer collide? When all you can see are the memories from that night, clouding your vision and making you forget everything except the blood?
The pain?
The room is dark and quiet, albeit the banging on the door as your stylists try to return, and the commotion of the staff members outside scrambling for someone to unlock or break it down. You've made a mess of the place in your delirium. Chairs and tables blocking the locked door, clothes and makeup scattered in piles of mixed powder and sticky ink. The chalky substance stains your hands and begins to cake your skin, stuck beneath your fingernails from where you scraped it raw, with shaky hands. The tears quickly tearing down the masterful mask made to hide all your imperfections from the world. The lights flicker from above the shattered mirror where you had just moments before plunged your hand deep within, droplets of blood thick and dripping off the deathly shards of glass just as it trickles down your arm in kind, tainting your skin and clothes a colorful hue of scarlet.
From the farthest corner you could find, you cower, shaking like a frail leaf in the wind as your eyes focus on the mirror.
The sparkling shards of glass.
The cracks.
The blood.
In the darkness, your vision blurs, your chest heaving as you hyperventilate, the floor seeming to want to swallow you up as your reality flickers in and out. Off and on like it were a simple switch. A steady beating of what is real and what is a memory. Almost as sure and true as your heart.
Off and on.
In and Out.
Every knock on the door sounds like a gunshot, pounding deeper and deeper into your skull until you can no longer feel anything else but fear. Each time you blink, you can see his hands reaching toward you, his face distorted and covered in hot sticky blood, so you keep your eyes wide open as long as you can before closing them to the horrific sight. And even if it's only for a few seconds, in the time when they reopen, there is a remnant of him remaining. Staring at you, smiling your way through the glass. The cracks distort his face even more, turning it into something ominous, deformed, and bleeding with your blood. The very same blood that now stains your hands.
You can't tell if you're screaming, or if it's just the sirens that continue to resound within your ears. You don't know if you're crying, or if it's his blood dripping as though they were your tears. You wonder if your hands are shaking from the wounds the glass inflicted on your skin, or because the gunshots came from you. You're too afraid to even look down for fear that the very same weapon you used to shoot your father that night will be clenched tightly in your hands.
