When I wake it is on a hardwood floor and in a dress so tight it hurts to breath. I gasp and the air whistles in. There is an inhaler next to a tipped over wine bottle. I reach for it with finely manicured nails, chipped at the ends.
Now I can breathe. I scan the room. It is mostly empty. No pictures or personal artefacts. A single mirror peaks out from behind the closet door; a strange place for such a thing. I stagger towards it, legs longer than I am accustomed to. I wobble, my feet sheathed in nude heels. I stop and then kick them off. They bounce against the wall and nearly clobber me in the face.
I breathe onto the glass then wipe away the mist. My face slides into focus. It is pretty but I am used to such things. What makes it particularly striking is the long scar running down the corner of my baby-blue eyes to the curve of my sharply pointed chin like a teardrop drawn in by a toddler.
This is the kind of face you’d never forget. I wonder how it happened. It puckers along