Shattered (Completed)

Chapter 4 - The Realization

So I attempted to drown myself when I was seven. Which really isn't all that weird, since my life must have been. . . Not good. Because why else would I have been in the Cylinder? Why else would they have trapped me in a prison like the one I was in?

I guess I find it. . . Funny now? Which is weird. I should be freaking out, knowing that I was suicidal. Or a type of suicidal.

It all really gets me thinking. Like, did I try to drown myself before or after I got the news that I was going to be put in the Cylinder? Did they even forewarn me? It's possible that all three are true - I attempted suicide both before and after, meaning they did forewarn me. But I had merely gotten the glimpse of me trying to drown myself. I don't know when, and, frankly, why, but it's legit that it's because of the Cylinder thing. 

But I don't know. 

How do I know this? You remember, don't you? The dream I had. When Alexandria was complaining about taking a bath, and yet her Mom forced her to? The mother had said, "Alexandria Paige!" in fear, seeing her daughter face down in the tub. That was me. That had been me, almost dead because of water.

Yet I still question myself. I remembered that one sentence - 'A stinky daughter is no daughter of mine!' No, but the word. . . It hadn't been stinky. It had been something else. But does that really mean that the entire scene was wrong? Does it really mean that all of it is wrong, and the scene was just to cover up what really happened? A false memory?

Nah. That seems crazy. 

It strikes me that I don't know my appearance. I know the girl in the Cylinder, peaceful and coated in water, in a leotard. What am I now? Is my hair still shifting colors? Is it even black? More questions swarm within my brain. Drenched in curiosity, I rise from the bed. Surprisingly, I don't feel a single thing as far as excruciating back pain goes. I recall the pain I had been going through, right after the glass shattered. How scary that must have been. . . And now it's just a blurry remembrance, like the dreams. 

Immediately, I stumble. My knees buckle and I'm sent back onto the bed. Of course. I should've guessed - my legs are weak from not being used for six years. I hadn't walked when they saved me, and since then I've been laying down. 

I take a deep breath. My legs feel like jelly right now. They throb right now, telling me I can't walk quite yet. But I have to. I can't just sit here, unknowing of my appearance. I suppose it's a girl thing. But how would I know? I don't know anything of my past, I don't really know how girls commonly act. Which is honestly funny, because right now I feel like I don't know anything. 

Once more, I take a deep breath and try to rise. This time it's easier. My legs are still weak and all, but it's easier. I manage to make it to the wall before feeling like I could collapse. I develop a headache and dizziness. Alexandria, you are one smart person. Letting your curiosity get you headaches and tunnel vision. I feel like crying for a heartbeat. Like, really? This is my life? God, it's terrible. But I really don't want to think of this anymore.  It makes me dig my fingernails into my palm.

"Come on, Alex," I whisper to myself. "You're not this weak," So with another breath of either exhaustion or courage, I push myself off the wall and half-stumble-half-walk to the mirror. And then I'm standing in front of it. I close my eyes quickly, falling against the mirror with relief. Both my hands are now pressed against the mirror, my face is inches from it. I hear my breath, feel it hot against the mirror. 

It takes me a long time to get the courage to open my eyes. And I find myself staring face-to-face with a girl who is shocked and pale. 

I blink twice. "That isn't me," I say. The pale pink lips move as I say them. As I shake my head in disbelief, so does the face in the mirror. But. . . She's too. . . She's too different. I hardly know the girl in the mirror. No, I know her from the dream. This girl in the mirror is the girl in the Cylinder. And I'm looking at her now because she's me. That's what mirrors do - they show you your image. 

She has black hair with strips of light purple. She has the palest skin and a line of freckles trailing across the bridge of her nose. The girl has wide, icy blue eyes with a black diamond over the left eye - the one not covered by extraordinarily thin and wispy bangs. How has my hair been so kept over the years? (Thinking of it now, the people here probably cut it because it was either so outrageously long or tangled or something similar.) She wears a thin light pink sweater with the sleeves going just over the palms of her hands with faded blue jeans. She looks astounded. She looks confused. She looks fascinated. 

Those are the emotions I'm feeling right now. Astounded. Confused. Fascinated. She is me. I am her. I'm the girl in the mirror.  The girl in the mirror is me.

I guess you're bored of my shock. Me, too. I want to be used to her - or, me. I want to be used to what I look like. But I'm not yet. I'm still either grieving or in shock or wanting to be in the Cylinder. Which strikes me with a peculiar question - do I want to be in the Cylinder, still? When everything was black and peaceful?

Probably not. Probably.

And then the door opens without a knock of respect or signal. Before I can even turn to greet the stranger, a bullet goes straight past my neck and into the mirror I am staring at. My reflection cracks.

Once again, I am shattered.