She ran into the bathroom. The girls at the sinks with their make-up bags and lipsticks in hand turned to stare at her stringy hair and her bony arms. But she didn't care. Why should she care? They were just a bunch of shit-brains. Like the rest of them. Like everybody. Everyone in this fucking town was warped. Except him. Her upper lip sneered as she thought of him. Him. He wasn't even worthy of her thoughts. He had never been worthy of her thoughts. She didn't even know why she was thinking of him now. Of course you know why . . . . .
She pushed open a door, slamming it against the wall as she did so; she stumbled in, fumbling for the lock behind her. She slid to the ground, the cold, hard bathroom tiles greeting her. She ran her hands across the floor, grateful for the coolness. Let me in . . . She raised her hands to her head, shaking it violently, almost demonically, before rising up once again, and turning to the mirror that was placed on the side. Damn them, with their stupid mirrors inside their toilets. She looked into the mirror, running her hands over it. A person unrecognisable stared back at her with sunken eyes, bags almost black underneath them. Greasy dark hair surrounded her face, hanging in clumps around her bony features. Lips that were chapped and sore, cheeks that made her cheekbones stand out far, almost scarily. A huge blue and yellow bruise was forming on the left side of her face; a blood-encrusted cut ran down the other side. She would get them back for this. As they say, revenge is sweet, oh so sweet. It doesn't have to be. Oh, but it did. Nothing could EVER compare to what she had been through. She had been to hell, and she had stayed there, only still living, she didn't want to be. Is that what she really wanted to be? Dead. Dead to the world, anyway. Dead to him. It's what he deserves. He never cared. But then again, why should he? She didn't. She never had, she never would, she would never even think of him again. Stop kidding yourself . . . In a scream of frustration she smashed her weak fist against the ugly reflection, the mirror shattering as the pieces cracked all around her. She withdrew her bloodied fist, wrapping the nearest piece of material she could find around it, which happened to be her t-shirt. She nearly cried out in pain, but refrained. After all, it wasn't as if she hadn't done it before. Her t-shirt was pulled done as she wrapped her fist tighter around it. Faded scars appeared all over her chest and arms, as well as newer ones on her wrists. Escape . . . Go on . . . Run away . . . Like you always do. Her vision blurred as she reached into her jeans pocket, pulling out her escape.
Her sharp escape. Her sharp metal escape. Her escape would never be taken away from her, unlike other things she didn't care to mention. Her escape was hers. And it always would be . . . . .
To be continued ……………………………? R&R