Broken Mirrors
The smooth, silvery surface taunts her, beckons her with its promises of perfection and vanity. Reflecting ideals and images that she does not recognise, cannot reconcile.
She stares at vision before her, uncertain about the likeness of herself in the mirror. The rib-crushing corset squeezing her body into the highly sought hourglass, layers of fabric spilling out from her hips and sweeping across the floor. An embroidered sash draped across her frame.
The mirror entices her to indulge in the fantasy it holds. But the longer she looks, the more distorted the image appears. She steps forward, tracing her fingers down the metal glass. Mirrors tell the truth, sometimes. But she knows that the shape of the mirror can distort reality, make those who view it see things that are not really there. This mirror is perfect, like everything else in this kingdom, this palace. She knows that the ugly verity she sees before her is not the result of a distortion, but of herself.
She cannot see her beauty, her own perfection, carefully crafted and constructed. She is to be coroneted today, preparing her for a life of royal servitude and diplomacy. But all she can see is the intensity of his gaze on her; all she can feel is the ghost of his touch along her body.
She grabs a brush sitting idly on a side table, tracing her fingers along the ornate designs etched into the handle. When she looks up, she can see him, wrapping his fingers around her shoulder, whispering sinful delights in her ear.
She feels the venom of her actions seep into her veins, poisoning her blood. The overwhelming hatred that concretes her body, presented before her within the derisive reflection of her image. Fingers clenched, she throws the brush, watching the glass shatter, spreading from the focal point out. Just as she has shattered within.
She is the epitome of betrayal, and the broken mirror can see this.