I turn around and I look at my reflection in the mirror.
My hair's a mess, but the layers make it look professional, like I wanted it to be choppy disarray. The red and blue steaks seem even more prominent while my hair seems darker.
My face looks…amazing, different even though all that's changed are my inner thoughts. My mouth is slightly open and I find I can't bother closing it. My face is round and full, but I couldn't describe it as chubby at this moment. My eyes were glazed over making the brown seem deeper and intriguing. A splotchy blush had creeped all over my cheeks, hiding any blemishes or pimples and taking the attention off the purple bags under my eyes.
The red and black belt hang off one side of my hip, one of my hands on it, like I can't be bothered to actually take it off. It looks quite cool, though I'm sure this style wouldn't be functional. The hand that quivers beside my waist has a piece of purple cloth wound around my wrist to the thumb and matches my purple and neon t-shirt.
I've never thought I could look like this. In the wild style I sort of looked…beautiful. Then I saw beyond the reflection.
My hair was a mess. Some of it was curled or straight and a few ends were splitting. Almost two inches of red and blue roots were visible, and I didn't have the money to get them redone.
My mouth is a mess, lip-gloss smeared at the corners and they are kind of puffy from wiping Kleenex all over my face too many times. I don't have the will power to close my mouth. My face makes me look normal but as I turn it to the left, I stare at the hooked nose that had disappeared over the past few seconds. The glazed over look in my eyes is pretty, but it's just showing how much I'm hurt, how much I'm affected by the pain. How I've been defeated. The blush was really the remains of the tears; my uneven tan was coming back second by second making my fall duller and the purple bruises uglier. A soft-looking pink spot was getting darker under my eye, from where I had smashed my face into the wall. Pimples seemed to multiply as I watched.
The belt is great but my hand just shows I'm too tired, too worn to take it off properly and that I don't care. The purple piece of cloth hides more than twenty cuts, long, deep and still stained with blood. I can feel them throbbing and burning, the cloth no longer looks cool; it makes me look like a weakling with something to hide.
The T-shirt shows the pot-belly bump of fat on me and lack of fat on my chest. My attempts at belemia and anorexia had not started to take affect yet, I still had to wait for the diet pills to get shipped in. My body forces me to look away. A tear falls out of my eye and the reflection fades leaving a defeated, hurt little girl who can't take one more minute of her life. That girl is me.