Winter breathes its cold, hoary breath against panes of glass kissed by spring, shuddering now as frost licks truth into the opaqueness of pale sky. Padding in on velvet dark paws, night steals crimson from the horizon and slashes gold from the distant sun with its false promise of heat.
She shivers, fine hairs lifting on the long arms, nipples tightening. The night slips around her, rubbing dusk against the spring green of eyes and leaching colour from the pale face. Freckles stand stark against the alabaster skin and shadows cast time against the hollows and planes of her face.
She stares into the mirror. It is so odd. The edges of her body seem to blur and blend as if reality is leaking into the fabric of possibilities once promises, now fading memories dreamed in a bedroom while lying on a maple sleigh bed, hewn from logs taken from a borealis forest when forests swept across endless acres of wilderness and the stars blazed the sky silver and in the distance, wolves howled.
Her skin, always pale, starkly white, freckles glowing on its skin seems to thin and become transparent. She leans forward and stares intently into the mirror. It is as if she can see the delicate tracery of blue veins beneath the skin, as though the very blood coursing through the complicated highway of her existence is exposed and raw. Her eyes, uncertain like her, green bleeding into blue into grey, unable to prove true colour. Like her mind. Like her existence.
She feels as if those traits which make her unique have been rejected, suppressed, dismissed. A cardboard cut-out, she makes her disjointed, awkward jerking movements approximating real life – but inside her mind and heart are slowly being squeezed to annihilation.
Her past several years have revealed a reality she mourns and the realization that those who profess to love, have loved their perception and not the reality of her. They desired what they perceived to be her and rejected, denied and hated those fallible parts that make up the myriad aspects of any individual.
Her writing is a threat. Kill it. Her social ability undesired. Suppress it. Anger? Nope – not allowed. Give, give, give …
Be what I wish you to be…
She realizes what she finds truly frightening is her inability, her frightening lack of will to salvage the reality that is her. Rather, she curls mute within the confines of her ugly body and watches with passive eyes as the things that she has always seen as intrinsically her are quashed, destroyed and bled out of her skin like bleached riverbeds of despair and regret.
She sighs and her breath is barely a thought, a slight shiver against the thread of life held taut by the Moraie.
She feels the reality of who she is fading into the fabric of reality around her. She feels the essence, the soul of her trickling away into the infinity of the universe where the blending and melding of that which makes her unique wanes into the vast abyss of sameness.
She is broken inside. She feels, profoundly, as if her existence is insubstantial, wisps of smoke and reflections in the mirrors. That she exists right now merely as a reflection ...
She opens her mouth and exhales thought against the mirror. But there is no substance behind the reflection and the glass reflects the ghost of maybe into her tormented eyes, and sighing, reality drifts ethereal into the now.