This is on the graphic side for violence. .

Ghost44

There was a fresh bouquet of flowers sitting on my writing desk when I returned to my room and locked the door. Through blurry eyes I stared at the arrangement, my chest feeling so tight I thought my heart would burst. The last thing I wanted was to see something living, something to remind me that there was a world beyond this room.

A murmur of voices followed behind me, as did a knock, which I ignored. I couldn't steady my breathing or my hands and my vision failed me. Blindly I felt for the bedposts and sat down hard wondering if this was what a heart attack felt like. So much pressure! I wanted to stick a knife into my chest and relieve the buildup, the tension I felt throbbing within my ribcage.

Oh God, I thought, I am never going to see Julia again. I pressed one hand over my chest and the other to my mouth and doubled over, the pain far too much to bear. Each breath hurt worse than the last, and before I thought for certain that I was on the brink of death I released a howl so deep and guttural that at first I didn't know that it was I that made the sound.

The transformation from complete devastation to white-hot anger was so swift that I barely realized that I had grown angry. When I found myself pacing the room it was as though I was not within my own body. I became a mere spectator watching this enraged creature storming back and forth through the small space, fists clenched, legs stiff, nostrils flared.

I stopped before the mirror, that damned, dreaded mirror, and wanted to kill the beast who glared back at me.

The image on the outside had confined me long enough in the world. I wanted out of this maimed, repulsive, disgusting shell. I was weary of all the years I had spent as a carcass, as a corpse that made my mother shriek and turned my father violent. A strange and dangerous thought passed through my mind. Perhaps my ruined flesh was a mask and there was something beneath it, something worthy of adoration.

I left the mirror and went to my desk, ripping out drawers, tossing aside papers and ink wells in search of a knife or a letter opener. It didn't matter one way or another if it was sharp or dull. I would cut myself and find out if there was something underneath that wicked face.

If Aria hadn't jumped on the desk I would have done something asinine. She dug her claws into my fist and bit my knuckles, attempting to start a game. I brushed her aside and she lunged, snagging her nails on my shirt sleeve.

Her determination to keep my attention made me sob, and within moments I was slumped over the desk attempting not to scream out in agony. She purred in my ear and licked my face with her sandpaper tongue, oblivious to my misery.

For a moment she settled me, but I was on the brink of a much larger cavern than I ever knew existed. Quietly, as to not disturb her, I rose from the desk, took her in my hand, and placed her on the other side of the door. She looked up at me with her one eye and meowed softly in protest.

"I cannot care for you," I told her softly before I shut the door.

With calm precision I locked it once more and stared at the mirror, at that terrible invention. I couldn't bear looking at that thing a moment longer, at that beast that existed within the wooden frame.

That was not me. It couldn't be who I was. I wouldn't tolerate another moment of that distorted, mangled man. That was the murderer, the cold-blooded, remorseless creature who threatened my happiness.

I had not asked for much over the years. I did not ask to be crowned king or made a deity. My needs were simple, basic, sustaining desires given freely to the rest of the world. Gifts, blessings upon others that would never be mine no matter what I did or how hard I tried. I was undeserving and incapable of unconditional love.

And it was because of this wretched face, this corpse's face, this terrible, loathsome, horrifying face. This was what caused my misery, what made me a monster. Half man and half beast. When I gazed at the reflection I knew the beast was taking over, usurping what little power I struggled to keep.

I was losing.

Again I stepped away from my body, from the pain I felt burning through my insides. One by one I picked the roses from the vase, squeezing the long stems in my fist as I ripped away the petals and leaves and discarded them onto the desktop. Splatters of water fell onto the crisp white sheets and destroyed each carefully written note, but soon a different tune was played out on paper.

Blood. My blood in tiny drops created a symphony of havoc. I didn't feel the thorns pierce my palm or the warmth trailing down the sides of my hand. I couldn't smell the fragrance of roses or the pungent, salty scent of blood in the air. I felt truly dead both inside and out.

Once the roses were destroyed and tossed aside I clutched the white vase with my sticky hands and poured the remaining water in the rubbish bin. Calm settled over me, a deceiving undercurrent to the rage I felt tremor like an earthquake through my insides.

I would destroy the beast, the anathema to my existence.

With the vase in hand I walked to the mirror and stared at that man I had tolerated for forty-two years. I wanted to kill him.

My hand reached out, stained red and trembling, and touched the cold, smooth surface. I smeared red across the mirror, over the eyes and the lips and the deformity I wanted to rip away. Each move I made was mocked, repeated in perfect time, and I slammed my fist into the glass to make that wretched beast stop.

The glass rattled, the wooden frame tilting back before it righted itself again. The eyes still stared, wild and enraged, daring me to continue.

He would not die easily.

But still I tried to kill him. I swung the vase back and threw it into the mirror, my muscles fueled by the most violent rage I had ever experienced. The face that I felt nothing but revulsion for each time I removed the mask was turned into spidery cracks before my eyes but didn't die. He was still there, shattered but existing.

So many years ago my parents had used my appearance as punishment against me. I hit the mirror again and again with my fists, each time a tribute to the anguish I felt over the years. Once for the first time I watched the cellar door shut, once for the first time I recognized the name on the tombstone, once for the first beating that broke my rib and once for the chains that thwarted my escapes.

I had no idea how much time had passed. I didn't know what stopped me until there was blood everywhere and I was on my knees sobbing and shaking and staring at a shard of glass on the floor. And another. And another. And that terrible man still existed a thousand times over as he would always exist and endure and mock me until the end of my days.

No matter what I did he would be there, sometimes only on the outside, sometimes poisoning my insides.

A sharp pain suddenly cut through the blanket of numbness that shrouded my mind. I sat panting, attempting to hold back the sickness I felt threatening.

A piece of glass had impaled my hand through the meatiest part of my palm. It had entered at a nauseating angle that reached the base of my wrist and tore down until it stopped at the base of my thumb. The sight transfixed me, captivated me as I suddenly woke from my madness and glanced around at the destruction I had caused.

Madness was replaced by desperation to staunch the flow of blood. The sight made my stomach churn. I had sliced not only my hand but the base of my wrist where the veins were usually blue. The wound was not deep, though it was a good two inches long and split like a canyon. Warm, red blood was pulsing from the wound like water from a pump. I cursed softly and attempted to blink away the dark spots in my vision.

I rose to my feet and heard the sudden pounding on the door and a woman screaming. Three women, I realized suddenly. Meg, Madeline and Ruby were standing outside the door screaming for me to answer, undoubtedly beside themselves from what they heard beyond the door.

In a daze I turned the lock, cradled my hand and stared back at them, squeezing my wrist in a failing attempt to stop the blood. My senses were piqued. I could smell the coppery scent of my own life source, feel the rush of warmth gathering in the palm of my good hand, and feel my knees turn to liquid beneath me. Everything I had drowned out came back tenfold.

"I broke the mirror," I said simply. "And now I think I may have killed myself."