The Girl in the Mirror

I sit in class, stomach in knots, for no reason other than the fact that I am here. My fingers twist together in my lap but are much too sweaty to intertwine properly.

I shake my head. But the storm cloud still looms.

I walk to the teacher's desk, my footfalls echoing in the silent classroom. Too much, I tell myself, just too much attention.

My voice comes out a squeaky whisper as I ask to go to the restroom, heart thumping. As soon as I am excused, I rush out of the crowded room and into an empty hallway. I let the desolation seep into my skin and offer me a little comfort.

To my surprise, the bathroom is also unoccupied. I swallow a gulp of my own saliva as I face myself in the mirror. Not myself, though. Just a girl. The girl who stares back at me is not someone I recognize. There was a time, I could tell, that she used to be pretty. But now, years of constant pressure and unwanted stress made her shoulders and eyelids droop. My Chuck Taylor's squeak on the bathroom floor as I take a step closer to her. She looks panicked.

Her face is round, but her edges are hard. Her face is littered in faded summertime freckles and picked-at pimples. Her eyes, despite the fluorescent glow of the bathroom lights, lack radiance. Dark lines fall from the corners of her lips. She looks as drained as I feel.

My breath gets caught in my throat, stuck and scared. Panic sweeps through me as I realize that I no longer want to look at this stranger in the mirror. I no longer want to look at the void.

I reach down to the sink and let the cold water drip from the faucet. I splash it all over my face, and yet, the fear did not go away. My heart continues to drum in my chest. I lift my head once more and face the girl in the mirror.

Her cheeks are flushed and wet with cold sink water. But she still remains.