She had a small bathroom; nothing special. It consisted of one shower that could also be fit for a bathtub, though no one in her house actually took baths. She thought she might like to take that up one day, just maybe. That lied on the wall across from the door.
Beside it, on the wall to the left of the door, was a small, porcelain toilet with a suede seat, a mint colored sink top, and a medicine cabinet to give you your reflection from every angle with which you could look at it.
Given this fact, when you get out of the shower, you will have no choice but to watch yourself change, whether you like it, or not. She doesn't think her mother took this into account before buying the mirror, but then again, her mother doesn't take many things into account, at all.
Like how the sink has one more drawer than the ordinary eye might be able to see, and that drawer may hold the answer to all of her problems. It wasn't that it was a secret, but she didn't want anyone to know why she only wore long sleeve shirts and jeans.
When she stepped out of the shower one particularly chilly morning, she was pleased with what she saw in the mirror, or more, what she didn't see. As she noticed that the mirror, often clear and straightforward, had a thin sheet of mist to conceal everything she hated.
She thinks this must be an allegory of some sort, if not a poetic sign from the gods. For, through the hazy, unclear reflection before her, she could only see partial images of herself. She saw her wet, brown hair hanging off her shoulders, but she did not see its stringy, mousy texture. She saw the pale blue towel wrapped securely around her body, but she did not see its unshapely form that she had to come to loathe so much.
So, so much.
She couldn't see the scars on her wrist and up her forearms, or littering her thighs. She only saw her pale complexion, and for now, that was alright. For now, everything was alright.
She smiled genuinely, for the first time in a long time, and finally,
she was home.
