In the mirror.

I remember once seeing my mother write an email to one of her
friends before I was diagnosed with bulimia.
I was stood over her shoulder, with my hands on my hips waiting for the computer
impatiently.
My heart was starting to beat slower and my stomach had noticed a change in eating.
You could see a faint outline of my collar bones, but it was nothing to worry about.
‘She is not yet the teenager from hell.’
The words wrapped themself around my brain and melted downwards towards my stomach.
They dissolved with the stomach acid, and I threw them up some years later.
I bet she regrets sending that email.

I woke up next to him, feeling his steady breath on my neck.
I could hear my heart beating inside of my head. Loud vibrations pushed against
my eardrums, and my stomach pulsed.
I stood up quickly, and the floor moved beneath my feet.
I moved my way through ashtrays and liquor bottles, being careful not to step any shards of
glass from his rage blackout.
The bathroom light was suddenly on, and I stared into the mirror.
A pair of eyes stared back at me, but they were not mine.
There was no connection with the girl in the mirror, and a feeling of panic rose in my chest.
I shut off the light and lay back down on the sofa, wrapping the blanket around me.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
I fell to sleep and dreamed of my shadow moving on a brick wall.
I couldn’t make out the features, but it was me.
Not the girl in the mirror.