Musical Chairs
DISCLAIMER: Vocaloid © Crypton; Dear Rangge © Hachi.
(the dead are gentle to us – just like this)
Her reflection is imperfect.
It's something she keeps noticing, whenever she passes mirrors and any glass that reflects. Her left shoulder (she has a left shoulder now—she touches it again and again to remind herself it's real) is smaller than the right, and her left arm doesn't obey her when she tries to move it. Something about the interconnectedness of their nerves, of their blood vessels and bones—she never really understands the doctors when they talk about it.
(there was another time when she'd look into her reflection and it would double, like it does when she's cross-eyed now, and she stares and stares at the glass and tries to see it but it's never going to be the same)
She stands and stares at herself—a rather normal, rather plain girl in black—and rests her right hand to the glass, leaning her forehead against its cold surface.
The game is over.
There aren't winners or losers when one side forfeits against the will of the other.
She stands up and turns around. There's a single old chair in front of the grand piano.
…She walks over to it, pauses, and sits down.