It's there again. Oh why did mom have to put it back up? She knows how much the mirror scares me. I force air through my lungs. I need to take it down before I see what I've done again. I close my eyes and walk into the room, feeling around for the dresser. The sharp wood presses against my hands. I lean forward another inch, and my face smacks into something cold and flat. My eyes open instinctually.
A scream rips my throat raw all over again. It's there, staring at me, with my eyes and my hair and clothes. My reflection raises its hands, her face concerned and almost scared. "No, wait, it's okay! It's just me!" Tears fill her eyes. She doesn't understand why I'm screaming. It doesn't scare me when she moves without me anymore. That's not what I'm afraid of.
I'm afraid of myself. I'm afraid of what I do to her. Before my eyes, jagged slashes open up across her skin, matching mine. She gasps, trying to stem the flow of blood from her arms and shoulders. Whatever wounds I have, she bears as well as soon as she sees them. I hate myself for hurting her.
I hope she never asks me what I'm doing when she can't see me. I don't know either.
