With time, I learn to accept the fact that my mind created what it wanted to see.
It is not easy.
It is not painless.
But it is what it is.
I have to accept the facts, and learn to live with the truth.
I promise to myself that I will not miss them, because the hardest part of this is leaving them.
With time, I learn to live in the reality.
I learn to live with the mirror, and accept what it gives me.
It is easier to accept what can not be changed.
But it doesn't make the pain easier to bear.
Every time the mirror cracks now, I wait for the blood and the pain to come with clenched teeth.
And come, it does.
Sometimes I bite my tongue so hard that it bleeds.
Sometimes my nails leave moon-shaped scars on my palms.
There are always tears.
But they're quieter now.
I'm quieter now.
I barely speak about twenty words a day.
But I write.
I write and I write and I write.
And then I hide the pages under my bed sheets.
Sometimes I write about Elizabeth. Sometimes about Connor.
But always about something sad.
My parents are concerned, but they don't actually do anything.
I hear them whispering before I walk into the room, and then quickly jerking their heads up and stopping as they see me.
They carry on this façade and don't pretend to notice to anything different about me.
I come downstairs in the morning and greet them.
They plaster on a fake smile and greet me back.
I come back from school and I'm greeted with the same fake smile.
It repulses me.
I find it easier to lock myself in my room and write.
Sometimes the silence hurts me.
Sometimes I feel like anything hurts less than the quiet.
But then I remember how it feels like when the silence is broken by yet another crack, bringing with it misery and pain.
The wretched mirror still sits in the corner of my room.
A shiver still runs down my spine every time I catch my reflection moving from the corner of my eye.
She comes back sometimes, too.
The girl in the mirror.
She brings the pain.
She brings the misery.
I've found it easier to suffer than to retaliate.
I've found that hope is hurtful.
More hurtful than losing imaginary brothers.
More hurtful than suffering physical pain.
Because the mind is where it all lies.
Our ghosts.
Our demons.
Our fears.
And once your own mind decides to bring your downfall, nothing can stop it.
A/N- even though i started this story almost two years ago, i'm still having trouble letting it go
only two chapters left guys :(
YOU ARE READING
Cracks in the Mirror
Horror"Honey, we're going to shift to a new house. It will be a bit smaller than this one, but it's gonna be in a pretty...ahem...lovely state", my father, Matthew Smith, broke the news to me. He's a pretty great father, in most aspects, but breaking bad...
