|◂✦ 𝓐 𝖕𝖎𝖊𝖈𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖙 𝖉𝖊𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖘𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖋𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖘𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖑𝖊𝖘 ✦▸|
She sighed, staring into the mirror. Such a familiar sight it was, something she'd grown to attached to in her dismal hours. The glass had broken off in areas, leaving the sheet of aluminum to deteriorate and dull in splotches. The edges were blackened and discolored where a simple wooden frame used to be, as though desperate to save the memory of being together. A memory of being pristine, clean, undamaged. Innocent.
She sighed again, sweeping the pale hair from her face and loosely holding the thin strands at the nape of her neck. She separated it into sections, then began weaving it into a braid with the utmost care as she stared into the dull green eyes that were reflected at her. Something about this mirror, the only ill-treated object in this cold, white room, always seemed to distort her appearance if she gazed too long. She always seemed to look colder, more distant, growing less like herself each time she wove one section of her hair under another, each time she pulled her dull, dry hair into a tighter, neater braid. Once she was satisfied with her weaving, she bound the straggled bundle of split ends with an elastic band and let the braid fall limp against her back. She reflexively allowed her eyes to wander over the worn reflective surface again. In an effort to push aside her dread, she allowed her mind to take in every spider web crack, every chip in the glass, every splotch of age.
Once more, she sighed. After a few more moments of staring into her own eyes, she turned away, brushing her crisp white coat of nonexistent dust and leaving the bright, clean room. The sharp scent of iron and decay hit her, followed by the mumbling and crying of her failed projects. Her eyes grew used to the dim lighting, and though she tried to keep her eyes from drifting, her gaze wandered the line of iron bars that closed in on her stained cement catwalk. Irregular forms huddled in the corners of unkempt cells, others began throwing themselves wildly against the bars to scream at her. She kept her distance, walking in a perfect line down the center to avoid the grasping hands and droplets of enraged saliva, the yellowed pus and sickly blood that dribbled from the pores of her altered subjects.
She entered the room at the end of her trail of regrets and returned to the clean metal table she despised. She returned to the neatly placed tools and weapons, to the wide variety of chemicals at her disposal. A man clad in a plain gray jumpsuit lay yet another person on the table, clicking locks and tightening straps as a the being behind him moves next to her, whispering and prodding at her with limbs and energies her mind could barely comprehend. She let her aversion and disgust slip away from her mind, allowing herself to become empty and numb before continuing the work the otherworldly creature had demanded of her once again.