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In the night there was a girl. She moved like candlelight and had a face like tarnished silver. Mottled. Masked.
When the sun disappeared, the darkness would swell within her. One finger, two, the lower part of her gut, and then her left eyeball. All would become clouded until she could do nothing but sink to the floor and wish that she possessed the capacity to even writhe in agony. The celign formed patterns above her, but to make them out required strength she could not muster. Mirrors made her twitch. The reflection which was not her own would stare at her with murder behind its retinas. Sometimes it became too much and she would snatch the mirror from its place below the light switch and fling it face down upon the bed. It wasn’t enough.
Boysenberry lips, hair the luster of platinum from a bottle labeled Lasting Tresses. She barked too loudly when she laughed and never once apologized for it. Everything about her was sharp. Her tongue nearly cut the girl in two the first time it tasted her flesh.
Contact lenses lay discarded upon the desk. What was worth looking at anyway? She knew how far the drop to the group was from her window. So many people passed by every day. Not a single one of them ever looked up.
Pins stabbed at tiny red dots marring her skin that refused to disappear. Frustrated, she held the blue flame of the butane lighter to the tip of the needle once again. It was shaped like a gun. Fire shot out from its muzzle.
The dog couldn’t understand why she had left. She had never smelled right, that girl. Something cancerous about her, but the mass wasn’t solid. Undetectable. Still, she smelled like home. The dog had nearly forgotten the odor.
From the floor of her cellblock room, the girl’s mirror-self berated her once again. She was being stupid, pathetic. Why couldn’t she just GET UP. Fucking stupid, moronic, lazyass motherfucking piece of no good shit. Kill urself. Waste of fucking space. You have pills, you have whiskey, you have knives, you have a hundred foot drop, you have a bridge, you have razor wire, you have a bathtub, you have razor blades, you have bedsheets, you have a noose, FUCK you have everything except a goddamn spine. Fucking coward. Worthless ass no good fucking cunt. Look at yourself. Look. LOOK AT ME. We’re pathetic. You’ve got everything. And what do you do? You just lie there and watch it all trickle away. You lie there and let the world fuck you up your tight little asshole because you haven’t even got the grit to say no. Pussy. How you gonna sue the world, huh? It’s not your boss this time, sweetheart, it’s the whole goddamn motherfucking universe. Can’t file a lawsuit against them, can you. You could quit. But you need this job, don’t you bitch. That’s right. So get the fuck up.
The mirror lay in shards upon the bed, the weapon, a hardcover copy of Anna Karenina, lay next to it, its spine cracked open to page 683. The girl, breathing heavily, sat down amidst the mess. She was naked, her recently discarded jeans and tank top strewn across the mounds of other dirty clothes. The room was more filth than floor.
She laid down without bothering to swipe the broken glass from the fitted sheet. She pulled a blanket over herself and shut her eyes as blood began to trickle from the cuts on her legs and ass. Sleep did not come. It never did. Instead came boysenberry lips, platinum hair. The tongue that cut her in places she never thought she’d be able to share. There was a darkness in the girl. But she would not let it consume her tonight.
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