by Michelle Crosby
Amber stumbles back from the sink. Drops of blood blossoming on the cracked porcelain as the coven of popularity and privilege retreat down the corridor. The mirror beckons her forward but a stranger greets her in the glass. A stranger with caverns for eyes, Medusa-like tendrils framing the angry gash on her forehead.
Visions assault her, like shrapnel from a bomb. Lava pulses through her veins. Bubbling and boiling. Forcing her hand. Propelling it towards the glass. A lopsided smile appears in the reflection. The mirror forever claiming the shattered fragments of her soul.
Amber retrieves a shard from the sink and moves towards the door. ‘They deserve it,’ the stranger whispers.