She had the petite, flimsy body of a rag doll. Her flesh was the color of aged porcelain, highlighted by burgundy cheeks that seemed out of place. Glassy eyes that stared at nothing were sunken deep into her skull. They were marbles, framed by a collection of lashes. Every breath she took in seemed to exhale the life out of her. Her wrists were gloved with bloody red lines. Had she been beaten? Impossible. Not even the cruelest of parents could do that to their own child. She must've done it to herself. But what could make her do such a thing? What evil lurked in this poor child's life that caused her to give herself such physical disfigurement? I reached my hand out to her, wanting to give this poor girl some sort of comfort. At that very moment, she too raised her hand up in a seemingly curious way. Our fingers inched closer and closer together, both hesitant for that touch. At last they met. In place of the warm human contact I had expected, I felt a cold stiffness, almost like glass. I had not touched her finger- but instead, a mirror.
June 7, 2012