Truths

Part One

She's already tired when she gets up.

She drags herself to the small, shared bathroom and looks at her reflection in the mirror, under the icy light from the ceiling - her golden hair is messy and shabby; large dark circles under her hazel eyes make her thin face look even more worn out. The stare that her reflection gives back to her is hard, stern, and even vaguely disgusted.

Dalia hates that look. She suddenly snaps off her pyjama top and throws it against the reflective glass, covering it almost completely. The other her, she is sure, is still staring at her crookedly from the other side of the fabric, but Dalia will manage to ignore it, at least for a while.

After a quick shower and with damp hair, Dalia puts on her usual faded jeans and green sweater, completing the look with heavy socks and boots. Hastily, she leaves the house: it is already late.

She does not even have time to grab a coffee at the café. The bus that will take her to the university campus is on time, as always, and Dalia finds herself running to be able to catch it.

When she hops on, the bus is full. People of all ages, colours, and ethnicities occupy almost every available space, and she feels all eyes on her as she stamps her ticket.

She knows, rationally, that no one is paying attention to her; the voice inside her head, however, is insistently suggesting otherwise.

Everyone is looking at you, it says in a pedantic tone. Look at the way you're dressed; hell, you could try a little harder.

Dalia sighs, disheartened, as she slides toward the centre of the vehicle and holds on to one of the cold metal poles with one hand. The voice continues to mock her, and Dalia wonders if it will ever stop.

The ride to the campus is short, but even the bus finds itself slowing its pace on the ice-covered roads. Minutes go by, slowly, as Dalia yearns for the first glorious coffee of the day. She can almost taste it in her mouth - bitter, strong, with a slightly burnt aftertaste - and she nearly fails to notice, distracted as she is, that her stop is coming up.

As she gets off the bus the cold air lashes her face, waking her up from her numbness. Dalia squeezes herself tighter into her old dark green parka; she moves her scarf up to above her chin and heads to the entrance of the building, where she will find the usual broken-down vending machine ready to serve her the worst coffee she has ever had in her life.

At the gate, she is confronted by the entire soccer team - tall, muscular boys, with not too many functioning neurons. They are all encircling a beautiful raven-haired girl, dressed entirely in black; her snow-white skin is highlighted by black eye makeup, and her plump lips glow from the crimson of her lipstick.

"Do you have any plans this Saturday?" asks one of the boys, the larger one, in a flirty voice. The girl shrugs and turns toward the hallway, then starts to walk.

"I'm going to watch a movie and invoke Satan," she says without looking back. "And I certainly wouldn't want to have anything to do with you. Who knows how many STDs you might pass on to me."

Dalia waits, cautiously, for the girl's answer to reach the little brains of the players and enjoys their expressions of shock when it does.

Amid mutterings and discontent, the team disperses, moving toward the gym and clearing the hallway. Dalia then sets off and hurries her pace to catch up with the girl whom everyone in the university considers 'the weirdo'.

"Amelia!" she calls out and stops in the middle of the hallway. When Dalia catches up with her she is greeted by a half-smile, which she responds to with a nod.