Her eyes scanned the gloomy room. She took in the peeling yellow walls. The four poster bed of her childhood seemed less grand... void of life she thought.
The whole house was void of life. She moved to the desk by the window. She turned over the papers that were piled neatly to one corner. The neatness seemed quaint comparitive to the mess and decay that surrounded them.
She looked through the yellow pages. "Better Red than Dead" an image of a proud working woman holding the hammer and sycle flag, the world had come to know. She remembered those days. The days of revolution.
The days of naiivity.
She crossed the hallway to the study. Posters and pictures covered nearly every inch of available wall. This was the only place where decay had not seemed to seep in. The light seemed brighter. However still this room still held corners. Where darkness still continued to creep in. This room was the only healthy place left in the house.
All her happy memories smiled back at her. She looked at one of them. It was her on the big swing in the garden. She was 7 or was she 8 it didn't matter it was a happy memory. She was sat with her mother on the swing. Everyday she thought she looked more and more like her.
She placed the photgraph feeling warm with the memory. She turned and took in more then she found another. Her in her uniform stood next to Nigel. How smart did they both look she laughed happily. She remembered her brothers boyish ways. His smile. His laugh. It filled her with warmth.
She then noticed the piece of paper. On the desk another neat pile of them in fact. She knew what the contents of this stack was. She did not want to look but she must she always had to.
It was his discharge notice. Two years he'd served. Fought well for the cause, much like her. He had saved her life more times than she could count. And he was sent home with her. He'd been haunted by what he'd seen. He'd killed himself a month later. He was as much a part of this room as her good memories she mused.
She backed out of that room. Back into the hallway. She knew what was next. The door at the end. Rotted and decayed. The once white paint now a shade of grey. The decay seemed to all come from that room. She'd avoided it for so long. She must stop avoiding it. Face her fears.
She walked towards the door. Sliding her hands along the wall. Steeling herself for what she'll see inside the door. She exhaled slowly. Taking in the door. The decay was alive as if mocking her. She saw it seemigly laughing at her. As if saying we control you.
She prepared herself and pushed open the door. The handle cold to touch. She was now inside the bathroom. She saw herself in the mirror. This was not her. All the decay stemed from the mirror around all the corners in all of the rooms. This room was the root of her pain.
She stared at herself. Her naked body reflected back at her. Her athletic build a gross caracature. Her shoulders too wide. Her hips too narrow, she looked ill. She reminded herself it's all just in her head. The mirror lies. She always must remember that. Her short dark hair greasy and ugly. Too severe. Her reflection tilted her grotesquely muscular neck. She opened her mouth to speak.
"freak see how people see you". She knew it lied this was not her. Normally she'd run away at this point. The decay had gone unchecked long enough. She had to stop it at the source. She looked at her reflection in the bath room mirror. Looking at her body. Her body skewed and tortured. This was not her. Not anymore. No longer.
She looked on the sink. The blade so often. Too frequently used.
"Still using steel tools to stay strong are we" her reflection mocked. "Nigel used to use them". Anger flared inside her. Her reflection laughted knowing she'd scored a victory here. She picked up the blade and slashed at the mirror. Scratching and scarring the tainted surface until her fingers hurt from gripping the razor blade. She sat down heavily on the floor. She looked at the mirror, she could no longer see her reflection. Had she won. She wont know. Not yet.
Would she ever know? Would she ever clean her mind of these scars. She collapsed on the floor exhausted. Letting herself being dragged back to the real world. To her flat in London. Under the governments watch. Back into the world of hate. One last look at the mirror before she went back. The bleeding lines had opened a new wound on the mirror.
Maybe she had won.
