She slid a finger across her soft, concave stomach. The mirror showered a ray of light across her abdomen, where she slowly placed her long, nail-polished chipped fingers across. Cold to the touch; she felt a shiver climb up her spine, and closed her eyes, letting it simply wash over her. She tugged up her shirt even further to reveal a set of deep, twisted scars, just below two ever-growing, firm lumps on her chest ...
She sucked her breath in, and dared to meet her own eyes. Deep, brown, confused; crevices into a soul she wished she could look away from. She'd tried plunging in blindly before, but always found herself drowning in the end. She tensed, and her neckline grew sharp and hard, twisting a path down to her shoulders, which flattened out far and wide, like an endless prairie, just waiting to be cultivated. To be touched.
She shone white and pure in the moonlight. If you were unperceptive, you might miss the charred, ridged trails climbing up her forearms. Most wouldn't. She pressed them tight to her waist, her slight fingers turned into a small, angry fist.
Her eyes drew many. They shone with something everybody wanted, and nobody had. Like mirrors, they cast a perfect reflection as you stood before her, moments away from pouring your soul out. Deep, brown, and free. Free to make their own mistakes, and that they did. She was always someone to approach with personal troubles. After all, she'd been through it all.
And look how she turned out.
Like paperwork, her mind developed it's own type of categorization. The kind that lost it's way somewhere between it's stint in the filing cabinet, and it's way to the boss' desk. She spread her hands wide, until her fingertips ached from the strain, and took her body in palm. She pressed herself closer and closer, until breathing was no longer a priority, and her vision skipped a beat.
In her dreams, she saw him, smiling and full, his gaze on the horizon. His hair tousled in its usual manner, and his eyes, beautiful and bright, were lost in themselves, giving her the opportunity to stare. To stare, and to drink in every last bit of him, until finally, she wanted too much. And then the climax would take her over - the point where her dream turned to nightmare, and she'd wake with wet, heavy tears on her face, and in her bed. It was always the same; in the end, green eyes would turn to red.
She let go, and gasped for air. Panic fell over her, and a cold sweat settled on her forehead. Desperate, she grabbed her wrist in her hand, feeling the jarred lines, slowly, until it didn't hurt anymore. Until her vision returned, and her blood rested in her ears.
Perhaps she wasn't as reliable as everyone thought.
Like a stone. At her fingertips, she rubbed the cool, hard surface, before throwing it as far as she could into the depths.
I double doggy dare you.
Still and precise, she lifted her arm up to the light, up to the glistening eyes of the mirror, and let it stare. Carved into her skin were the troubles nobody knew. The war she waged on herself, to escape the one that surrounded her, outside.
The one that she ran from, the one that reduced her to nothing, and left her shuddering in the dark, unable to stop herself. The one that made her stop feeling like the girl everyone had built her up to be. The girl she had made herself believe she was.
A long, lean finger touched the road she built, from it's definite beginning to it's sure end, and she finally, with a heaving breath, let her arm drop. She turned away from the mirror, and made a promise she was afraid to keep.
Never again.
Ginny Weasley was better than this.