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A Dead Girl's Eyes
The mirrors stretch across the entire length of my new walls. I had told my parents that I didn’t want them to redo my room—they already paid too much in my medical bills. I only wanted one thing, and that was to be left alone. That wasn’t going to happen now. In every direction, I saw a thousand pieces of me.
Surely there had to have been a mistake, maybe a trick of the nonexistent light. It couldn’t have been me, sitting alone in the darkness. I didn’t always used to look like this, I thought as I studied my reflections.
My blankets were pooled around at my ankles. I could never decide whether or not to pull them over me. I didn’t want to see my body, yet at the same time, I felt like I was hiding the truth if I couldn’t see myself.
Surely this isn’t me, I thought again, squinting in the dark room. The girl in the glass squinted back, a look of distaste and despair mixing itself on her face. She looks at my limbs, the spindly, starved attachments. My fingers, which used to play piano so well. Now, they would barely move unless I forced them to. She stared at my hair, which flowed past my ribcage for the sake of half covering it up. Then at my nightshirt, which was huge on me for a good reason.
Her eyes travel upwards, as do mine. They rest on each other’s lips. The lips that had previously made such a beautiful sound, though nothing went through them anymore except for the dry sound of thin breathing.
My eyes continue to travel upwards, but then look away in a flash. I don’t want to meet her eyes, nor she mine. The horrible mirrors, though, they won’t hear of such a thing. Everywhere I look, I’m met by their glances.
I steel myself to look up, and hold the gaze. And in hundreds of repeated reflections, I look into a dead girl’s eyes.
My eyes were close to the only thing that hadn’t been invaded by illness. The blue still stood out in a shocking contrast to my pale face. They were the color of the ocean, with sandy flecks and silvery streaks. However, they had fallen short. After the irises closed, tiny red lines fanned out in all directions. They shone in the face of death, hot wires that would practically define me. Or curse me.
“I am you,” The girl says, for the first time. She doesn’t have a great voice, but it was better than I would have expected by looking at her.
“You are me,” I mutter back. They look at me curiously, and I am slightly conscious of the fact that my surroundings are darkening.
“You should get to sleep,” one of the girls mutters. I know she’s right.
Because tomorrow, I’m going to have to wake up and pretend that I’m going to get better.