mirror mirror on the wall {open}

[anacunningham]

and the rain will kill us all
throw ourselves against the wall

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and no one else can see

the preservation of the martyr in me

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Anastasia cradled her bloody hand in her arm. At least it had actually stopped bleeding by now, there were just the thick dark clumps of dried blood surrounding the knuckle, and shards of mirror sticking out. She knew she shouldn’t have come to the hospital, she knew the second she walked in it was a bad idea. They would ask questions and demand answers and she really wasn’t in the mood for either. She shouldn’t just stayed at home, gotten out some vodka and bandaids and made a night of it. Still the rational side of her brain had taken over and realized that glass fractured in her knuckle was probably not a great idea. She walked up to the nurse who stared at her. Fair enough the pink and purple hair was probably a bit of a shock and the lip piercing and fairly consistent glower probably made her look more than a little unfriendly. In lieu of explanation of her predicament Anastasia held up her bloody knuckle.

“Oh darling what happened?”

“I punched a mirror,” she sighed, her thick Scottish accent placing her even more in the ‘outsider’ category. The nurse looked confused.

“…why?”

“It was looking at me funny,” she replied. The nurse’s eyes widened. The sad fact was, Anastasia was telling the truth. It had been a strange evening. She had gotten home after work, and the rest had been a blur. Something had snapped. Stress, exhaustion, the usual feeling of worthlessness had gotten on top of her and started to push her down. She stood in her living room and started to cry, slowly sinking to the floor, sitting there for a few hours. She managed to drag herself to the bathroom where she threw up a few times. She tried to convince herself she was having a bad trip, but she hadn’t taken anything that strong in a long time, this was just her brain. She pulled herself up to the sink to wash out her mouth, before staring at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy and she was still crying, even though she hadn’t realized it. Ana had been sad before, sure she had battled with good days and bad, frequently crying herself to sleep at night, or hiding in her room. Self-harm had never been her style, more along the lines of harming people around her, sometimes getting into fights because hey then someone else was harming her and she could harm them right back. Still, this, this was bad, and she knew it was bad and she still couldn’t stop herself from feeling useless and pathetic and worthless. She couldn’t even think about asking for help because who would want to help someone like her? Who would give a shit anyways? She looked up at the mirror, at her face contorted by pain and crying.

“…wow…” said the face. She knew it was her face, but suddenly it looked different and strange and not the image she held of herself in her head. It was her, and she was aware of that, but it felt like something else. “You pathetic little bitch,” it continued. The lips moving were her own, the voice speaking was her own, if not a little horse and deeper from the crying, but hers. But the words were coming from somewhere else, somewhere deeper in her mind that made her think horrible things that she didn’t want to.

“God you look so fucking ugly when you cry,” it said. Then it laughed a bit, a short choked laugh. Anastasia stared at the face in front of her, reflected in the mirror, this thing that wasn’t her, or was, but was just a part of her that had never surfaced quite like this before, so she punched the mirror. She blinked, looked down at her hands and her brain suddenly wasn’t foggy anymore. She looked at the bloody mess that was in her hand and she was suddenly on autopilot. She held her arm, grabbing her bag and putting one foot in front of the other until she was at the hospital. Flash-forward forty-five minutes and here she was, staring at the nurse.

“I was fuckin’ joking…” Anastasia rolled her eyes. “I tripped an' fell” she stated. But the nurse stared at her hand. It was obviously not an accident, it had obviously been deliberate and Anastasia felt suddenly exposed.

“Right, let’s get you into a room,” the nurse said, coming around from the desk and guiding her by an arm down a hallway and towards a room.

“I’ll be fuckin’ fine aight?” Anastasia muttered. “I just need a plaster and I’ll be fine,” she rolled her eyes. She saw the room and something felt wrong, something felt very wrong. She could tell this was not a normal hospital room. She saw the posters on the wall advocating ‘positive thoughts’ and she knew.

“Oi I’m not mad!” she said, stepping towards the door. The nurse stood before her, but Anastasia gritted her teeth and made a break for the door. She managed to dash down the hallway, cradling her broken fist. She could see the entrance fairly soon, the waiting room. She was almost there. But two large male nurses stopped her before she got too far and dragged her back into the room. She struggled against them, flailing and kicking, all fists and arms. She continued to fight against the now three people holding her down. She never saw the fourth nurse holding the syringe or prepping her for it.

“Get off me! Get the bloody fuck off me!” She screamed, but the syringe broke the skin and soon Anastasia’s body went limp. They placed her on the bed and her head lolled She struggled to keep her eyelids open. “You…I’m not…” she passed out, not entirely sure what was going on. She awoke nearly an hour later. Her eyes opened slowly. She was hooked up to a few machines and she felt drowsy, but it didn’t matter, she just needed to get out of here. She tried to sit up and pull her covers off, but there was a restraint around one wrist.

“Son of a fuck…”

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IT’S FOR open.
AS FOR WORDS, WE HAVE 1033
THE LYRICS ARE FROM psychosocial by slipknot
MUSE IS THANKS TO ms anastasia cunningham
AND WE’RE WEARING hospital gown
ANY LAST THOUGHTS? none
THANKS FOR THE HARD WORK template (c) - bethasaur ftw . of CAUTION 2.0