Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
BEFORE YOU READ: This story is kind of disturbing. In this, Evie has an eating disorder, and splits her personalities between her real self and her eating disorder-self. This is told from the perspective of her eating disorder-self.
Your ghostly, charcoal eyes could cut through your thin skin as you glare at the girl through the mirror.
You hate her, with her swollen stomach and red-rimmed eyes.
Her weakness sickens you, makes you vomit up the food she was feeble enough to eat.
It glides like knives across your fleshy tongue (This time it might cut you open) and you hurry to get it out of you, lest this poison transform you into the ugly girl from the mirror.
The bitter aftertaste is all that lingers within you and you worry that all can see it sloshing inside you, that all will hate you for your dark deed
You hold your breath as you walk through the doors, praying they won't see right through you
A girl of glass.
But your paper-thin façade of eyeliner and biting remarks holds up this time, and you vow not to make this mistake again, not to let the girl from the reflection mess it up for you.
But you know that glass is as fragile as it is hard (And oh, can you be hard) but you know sooner or later you'll crack.
Why can't you have those few pounds, a cushion, like the other girls? the girl from the mirror whispers, her voice like honey.
But you know that you're not as good as the other girls. You have to try harder than them to be pretty, to be smart, to be liked (not like anyone likes you anyway)
But the worst is that you can't even blame them. How can someone like you if you can't even like yourself?
You bite your lip fiercely, savoring the essence of her on your tongue (You hope you're killing her with every bite)
And you want more. You want her to die, so you can live. A fair trade, you think.
The steel knife winks at you from across the room (it taunts you) so you snatch it within your brittle grip
And when you set it back down, there is a crimson banner across your white palm (No, not your white palm; her hand)
And you cannot suppress a smirk from emerging across your porcelain face.
The pain is not yours; you can hear its sneering whispers, but you cannot brush across it with your mind.
Amazed, you make another slice across the seamless flesh of your arm (It was made to be broken)
Her screams erupt inside your mind; you finally know how to kill her (murder her- destroy her- get back this body for yourself)
And you're suddenly sure that if you can rid yourself of her plague, you're free to be whoever you want. You can be skinny, finally, without her nagging voice telling you to eat.
So you shut your makeup coated eye and shove the glinting knife deep within her, and you know that she is finally dead.
But when the crimson keeps leaking out from around your fingers, you realize you made a mistake. You and her were one (forever intertwined) and now you, in death, were still together
Your hearts beat their last in unison, in one hollow shell.
And finally you take your last shallow breath, leaving behind a cracked portrait of a girl
A girl made of glass
That had finally shattered.
Sorry for being so disturbed. Drop me a review, a flame telling me to go get some psychological help, some concrit, whatever. I'll listen.