'I'm not crazy.
At least...I think I'm not.'
Belle looked into the cracked mirror hanging on the wall, barely able to recognize the sunken, once-beautiful face that used to be her reflection. Straggly strands of unkempt, unwashed brown hair flung this way and that across her face. She didnt' care enough to brush them away. Her pale, dull skin made her seem ages older than she really was. Two faded grey eyes stared back into her own, searching intensely for something that wasn't there.
'They used to call me crazy.
Because I liked to read.
Because I didn't get married.
Because I refuse to believe that my father abandoned me.'
She picked up the mirror.
'Or was killed by thieves.'
She smiled at her own reflection.
'Or found a better life.'
The reflection's smile morphed into a menacing growl.
'Or just "disappeared."'
In one swift motion, she hurtled the mirror towards the opposite wall, a blood-curdling scream ripping through the stiff air. She could have sworn she saw eyes, some one else's eyes, staring back at her for a split second… She stood in the middle of her little, dusty cottage. A sea of glass shards and countless empty mirror frames littered the wooden floorboards. The air was thick with dust and soot almost visible in the small amount of light the thick drapes let in through the closed windows. She walked toward the broken mirror, thousands of glass shards crunching under her callused bare feet with every step. She stared at the empty frame that her face had, just seconds ago, occupied. Tears started streaming down her cheeks, cutting through the dirt and grime and leaving behind small trails of porcelain skin. "What do you want with me?" she pleaded.
The mirror didn't answer.
They never did.
She bit her lip, her fear turning to rage. Grabbing the mirror once again in her hands she screamed, "WHERE IS HE? I KNOW YOU HAVE HIM!" Still no answer. "WHY WON'T YOU ANSWER ME!" The frame fell to the ground as intense sobbing overcame her. She wailed and wailed, pulling at her hair in tortured anguish. "Why don't any of you answer me?" she asked again, her body shaking violently with the tremors of her sadness. She thought it would work this time. She thought she could get answers. She thought that if she just tried again…
No.
She gingerly stepped towards the large book placed on the table. She traced her fingers gently over the golden title, silently mouthing the words "La Bête" to herself. Her hand flung the dusty pages open. She knew exactly which one to turn to. She silently read the story of The Beast to herself in the small, dusty room. She knew every single word by heart, but liked to see them written on the page. It made it all more concrete. More real. Her eyes tore through the book, page by page, line by line, word by word at a speed utterly unimaginable to any normal, sane person. She closed the leather cover. She knew what she had to do.
Tightening her faded, dusty, blue/grey shawl around her thin neck, she opened the door. It had been a long time since she had done that. She took one last look at the small room she called home for so long: the ocean of glass and twisted metal, the small, dried-up puddles of dark blood, the dusty book on the rickety, old table.
'I'll prove it.
I'm not crazy.'
The door slammed.
Silence.