The Cracks In Her Mirror

Chapter One

            On a cold December morning, Ginger smashed her hand into her bathroom mirror, shattering it, and littering the hard tile floor with a million shards of glass. It was completely irrational because no amount of shattered mirrors would fix the damaged vision that was her face. Being angry wouldn’t make anything better, but she had forced her hand into the glass simply because she couldn’t bear to look at herself anymore. She was once beautiful, but now, she looked like a victim pulled directly out of a war zone.

            The accident had been a month before. She remembered sitting in bed bandaged up almost completely for two weeks. The doctors told her she had broken three ribs and that one of her lungs collapsed. On site, they thought she was dead. After the bandages came off and Ginger got a good look at herself, she wished for a split second that she had been.

            She was maimed. The scar on her face stretched from the center of her forehead just under her hairline, down her nose, and took a turn, trailing across her left cheek. The scar was at least half a centimeter deep and obviously permanent. As if that wasn’t enough, her right eye and the right half of her lip drooped as if an invisible thread was pulling it down. The trauma had caused Ginger to develop a condition called Heterochromia Iridium, which made her right eye go dull. One eye was her normal bright blue color and the other was nearly black. Before the accident, Ginger had aspired to becoming a model. That dream was now just as shattered as her mirror. Though she once was beautiful, Ginger now had to accept that she never would be beautiful again. As far as she knew, her beauty had been her only redeeming quality. And now, she had nothing.

            The bathroom door swung open and her mother rushed inside with a concerned expression and fear in her eyes.

“I heard a loud crash and…” her mother’s face fell, “Oh Ginger.” Her mother was now looking at the blood that was flowing from Ginger’s hand. There were bits of glass stuck to the wound. Her mother gave her a look of pity that she couldn’t stand.

“Sorry,” Ginger mumbled, “I shouldn’t have done that.” Her mother was already in front of her, picking glass out of the gash and dropping the pieces on a towel.

“You shouldn’t have,” her mother whispered, “But it’s okay.” Her mother didn’t look Ginger in the eyes as she spoke to her. She rarely ever did anymore.

“This doesn’t get you out of school though,” her mother told her, “You’ve been out over a month.”

“Wasn’t my intention,” Ginger said quietly. She pulled her hand away and wrapped it in a washcloth.

“I’ll bandage it myself,” she spoke with almost no emotion, “I’m a big girl.” Her mother gave her a weary look and sighed.

“Make sure to clean it well. You don’t want an infection. Want me to bring you bandages?”

“No.” The word had come out sharper than Ginger intended. Her mother decided not to press her and left the room gracefully. She was harsh. She knew well enough that the accident hadn’t been her mother’s fault, yet some small part of Ginger still blamed her for it. Rationality didn’t mean much to her anymore.

            That morning, she dressed herself in a gray sweater she never would have been caught dead in before, and pulled the hood over her head. She liked the tiny cave of protection it provided her with. Maybe she could go to school and not be noticed, she thought. She left the house without breakfast and without more than a sentence to her parents. Her school was in walking distance from her home, so it didn’t take her long to get there. Once she reached her locker, she found her boyfriend of six months standing there. Carter. He still had his wavy brown hair along with his kind and gentle features. He was still beautiful and Ginger resented him for it. She now felt like she didn’t belong at his side.