Portraits of The Songs | BON IVER

VIII. Calgary

She looked up to the mirror and saw nothing staring back in there. No cold blue eyes staring back. Nor the cold chin. There's no skinny girl in black tops and jeans, with black long hairs strewn haphazardly all over her shoulders.

Because she was never there.

Dirty. Stupid. Meaningless.

She was just there to fill the air. And nobody even cared to take notice. She stood there just because she couldn't help it. She couldn't help herself for existing.

You're just a waste of space.

They embraced her when they need something from her, when they need to use her. Called her phone when they need someone to vent out to, and she knew she would listen. Because what else was she supposed to do? That's pretty much what her worth was.

Bastard. Slum. Worthless.

Worthless. Worthless.

She tried to look up from the sink. There. Her hollow eyes were there. Why couldn't they just accept it? Why couldn't she just exist?

Because we don't want you, that's why.

But why should they matter?

She looked closely to the mirror, hands reaching out to grasp her hair, her long, slick, black hair that she used to love and let it grow so long when she was young, but now they're nothing less than more of their so called space wasted.

Why was she worthless?

It's them who said she was. It's them who barely looked her way, barely acknowledged her with anything other than pure hatred. They despised her.

But why should she let her?

Her father was merely a father. Someone who helped created her into the world that they deemed not worth to be spared her space. She was just his mistake.

But was she her own mistake?

No. God, no.

She reached for the scissors by the sink, and brought it to the hair in her grasp.

They treated her like she was a fly. Dirty. Scum. Worthless.

But, no, she wanted so bad to just refused that. Because why should she accept it?

Her existence wasn't her fault.

Crash. Crash. Crash.

Hair fell down. Long black hair, long gone.

She wasn't who they thought she was.

She wasn't worthless, no.

She refused.

Screw them.

The fierce blue eyes, iciest she'd ever looked at, stared steadily back at hers from the mirror.

There was this girl with this delicate, but strong hands and shoulders.

She could hold anything thrown by their once so called, cruel life.

She was hers.

Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut.

Hair strands, black scattered around. Flying down, falling to the floor. To the sink.

She was new. And she knew.

She was worth it. Her existence was worth it. Because she got to experience life, however she liked and wanted to.

She was beautiful, strong, and precious.

She was there, reflected in that mirror, from here, living breathing and deserving.

She was new and she was happy.

Because she wouldn't let her happiness be decided by them and their cruel ways.

No.

Her happiness.

It was her choice, hers and hers alone.

Crash. Splattered.

The mirror shattered, and her hand was bloodied. But she didn't mind.

That mirror, too, didn't have the right to reflect something that wasn't herself.

It was hers to decide.

She walked out of the bathroom, feeling refreshed.