Shattered | Teen Ink


December 20, 2008
By Renee Phillips, Waldorf, MD

There. Before me, it stands. There's nothing else in this darkness. Everything around me is black - everything except for this. There's a mirror here. It shows my face. It shows the rest of me, too. It shows the darkness behind me, like a painting on black construction paper. There's nothing beside me, beneath me, nor above.
Just me and the mirror.
I gaze at it. I seem different there. I don't look different, I just am. I stare into my eyes, or at least the eyes the mirror shows me. Oceans swirl within them. Chaotic.
Yet there is nothing.

A crack begins at the top, where the mirror frame arches. It's small there. I didn't notice it at first. The crack creeps down through my reflection. A jagged line separates me in half. The me there was whole, but not. One eye is now filled and swirling and confused and hopeful and pained.
One is empty.

More cracks. They branch off the main one. Two go off in opposite directions, across my neck. One goes across my arm, another my leg. Even more cracks branch off. Again. And again. Some collide into each other and create a new set of cracks, some make it to the frame.
it shatters.

Pieces fly.





But it's dark...

They land. They cling. They clang. Where is the floor? I don't see it - but it has to be there.
No. No good.
I can't see it.

I'm surrounded now. A thousand faces of me stare up at me. The glare. They gaze. They need. They faze. Each one says something different to me.
With their eyes.
But what are they saying?

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