Disclaimer: I don't own Daughters of the Moon. It'd be darker if I did.

The surface is smooth, immaculate, an imperfect perfection; a disgusting truth. It revealed the broken complexion, the ivory flesh as similar as the moon, a hollowed gait as emaciated as a starving dog. Scrawny bones, gaunt cheeks, soured orbs the colour of a pale blue bucket; those types of buckets that were chipped and fissured. Tangles of gold overlapped grayish strands, as white as an old woman's mane. It was smooth glass revealing honesty: a dark, cold void.

It was a mirror.

It was every failure, every flaw stressed to the point of sorrow; prompted to let frosty fingers curl around the metal trigger, and pull. This was a depressing, soulless monster, the horrifying nightmare brought upon reality. It was earth-shattering precision.

Did anyone know that?

No one, of course, but Vanessa, so drawn to it that she found reality slipping through her fingers, like cascading water. Her trembling fingers sweep across the reflection of that girl, the hard material of glass silken and soft. There is no dust to spot the glass, no veiling of the flaws decorating her nude body, stripped of clothes and spirit. Her frown is permanent, as is the crumpling porcelain face.

Who is that?

There are streams encircling her thighs, radiating crimson, a tainted Nile River; let the rivers run red. Those slim thighs are delicate, a region no one touched or saw; it was a hiding place for her troubles to carve themselves into. She chews on her bottom lip, drawing blood in the same fashion as her skin, and the stinging sensation chills her core. Her stomach quenches, what is this?

It is neither an instinct nor a cliché design; as in, is it necessary, as adolescent kind practices this ritual. No, it is an impulse, an unmistaken act of her subconscious, screaming laments to her ears, saying profound commands. Her claws, her once manicured nails—now dirt buried underneath them—dig into the skin, white lines trailing, and she presses her face into her icy palm.

Is it enough?

She tears into her scalp, and decides there's too much hair. Was concealing her face needed? A razor in her hand, rusty and sharp, she cuts at the ends, and they are jagged, poking out and beautiful. Now everyone can see your beautifully revolting face; the reddened lips, famished cheeks, despairing face, and devastated irises, the life drained from them. Are they blue or dead?

"She'll be back, we'll find her."

Promises as vacant as her heart.

"She's not dead."

What is death?

It was not Heaven nor Hell, and not darkness. It was beautiful relief, inexistence as unspoiled as this mirror. Though not revealing grief, but pretty things, tender, like silk on water. It was sauntering under a canopy of cherry blossoms, or down an orchid of fruit trees.

But is it worth it?Vanessa collapses, leaving the mirror behind. There is no lie in mirrors. Even mirrors at carnivals; those ones just brought out your insecurities. She is a Queen, they say, and instead, she laughs. A Queen of Hearts card, sliced in half, beheaded—off with her head! Queen of La Brea High, how rewarding a title. But is anything rewarding? You're just swimming in a hellhole, searching for the light of earth's embrace.

And finally, where is Catty?

Vanessa circles her arms around her slender figure, and the skin is cold and damp. She can't feel her pulse, and she can't hear her soul. It's a whistling sound seeping through her body, as if she is a phantom. A mirror shapes itself into the undeniable exactness of anyone, any being. Some handled it finely, and some… Some cut off their hair, unleashed floods of red water, and sobbed.

Some like Vanessa, who observes the mirror again, repeating the truth.

You know, it's an imperfect perfection.