The eyes in the mirror were its eyes. But they were hers and she was defenseless to beat it alone. Mascara ran from her eyes. Black, salty water hitting the linoleum floor. White. To black. To red. Crimson. Its rival the rose, but this this was not a rose. This was blood. It wasn't pretty, but she wanted it. She wanted it more than a rose. She wanted to see it. She wanted to feel alive. She wanted to hurt. She wanted to feel.
She wanted to be better.
Fifty fresh cuts on the inside of her ankle alone. Twenty more on the top of her foot, ten on the underside. Eighty.
She had to stop it. She had too, but she was powerless against it. She couldn't do it alone.
Sunlight broke through the window pane, cold wintery air blowing against the glass. She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, angry red marks staring back at her. Blood had dried in angry black lumps where the cuts were deepest. The area around it a bright, and pissed red.
A razor blade sat on the counter