92 Vanity

It was a deadly sort of ritual.  

Sitting in front of that piece of reflective glass for hours, applying make up, covering blemishes, scrutinizing every inch of her already pretty face.  

She had to be perfect.

Men and women alike marveled at her beauty—but still, as she fell to the clutches of sleep at night, there was no smile upon those reddened lips.  No real blush had ever warmed those rouged cheeks.  Love?  Well, the only consistent presence in her life had been that mirror and table which resided across the room.  

Moonlight filtered in through her sheer curtains and reflected off the glass, filling the room with a pale glow.  

Rising from her bed, she glided across the room, taking a seat in that familiar chair.  Even in the moonlight, she knew she was beautiful.  Her dark hair hung in waving tresses to the middle of her back; her dark eyes ever mysterious and alluring.  But there was something wrong.  She started as the glass suddenly cracked, spider-webbing in the middle.  It was only small, at first, but the crack was there.

Hands shaking, she reached out and touched the cracks.  
Suddenly, they shot out more, enveloping a large portion of the middle of the mirror.  

Her face was a beautiful visage of terror and wonder…but the face that stared back at her was distorted and hideous.

The glass broke faster now, cracks running to the wooden frame that held it in place.  Withdrawing her hand, she sat there silently, her perfect eyebrows raised in question.  

Without warning, the glass shattered, flying outward.
Crystalline pieces of that mirror, her only friend, bit into her flesh, tearing and scarring.
Unforgiving, cold glass.

Feeling the cuts and scratches on her beautiful face; feeling the blood well and leak in small rivulets down those once perfect cheeks…she screamed.

But it was not a scream of pain.