The girl I'm looking at is not at all beautiful, or even pretty. She's skinny, fragile and sick-looking. Her hair, frizzy and thin, is falling out in handfuls as she runs a brush through it. She attempts a weak smile that doesn't spread to her eyes. They are sad, and too wide, with pools of purplish circles beneath them.
She touches her hips, her face, feeling the bones that stick sharply through the tight, pale skin. This seems to scare her, her chapped lips part, her brow furrows. She starts to reach out, her long, slim fingers curling, waiting for mine. Her wrist looks like it's about to snap, only from the meager amount of strength it takes to hold up her hand.
Slowly I reach for her. My finger tips about to touch hers, my heartbeat excellerates, ringing in my ears.
And then I feel nothing but cold glass.
The worry in her forehead deepens. Tears well in her eyes and spill over, sliding down the sallow sides of her ravished cheeks.
She pulls back her hand and holds it against herself. Falling to the floor she curls into a ball. Resting her forehead against her knees, she rocks. There's a knock on the door, her little brother, complaining that she's taking too long, but she doesn't hear it. Her back is hitting the knob on the cabinet door, where blood surfaces to the skin and begins to form a circular bruise, but she doesn't feel it.

It's only now I that realize it had been my own reflection.