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Countless times I’ve stared into this mirror. Every day searching for lines, wrinkles, spots, each imperfection easily eradicated with creams and concealer. And yet with all this staring, the image on the inside of the glass can never reflect the person outside.

My self image fluctuates between: a super-model with an hour glass figure to a shapeless, spotty blob with a paper bag as a fashion accessory.

Lately, the blob days are more frequent.

I look at the person incarcerated inside the reflective cell. No worries. No fears. No aspirations. A life defined by expression, movement and light. Complexity does not exist.

How I long for a life like that. Where I didn’t have to surrender myself to a lie to survive. Where I didn’t need to be one step ahead, watching, always watching. Of course, I pretend to rest; relaxing with a glass of wine and a good meal, or laughing at a stupid telly sitcom. But it’s always there, lodged inside, gnawing, eating at me till my mouth is awash with blood and bile.

It was the wrong time. So much was happening, I couldn’t handle everything; something had to give. I just took a rational decision. Nothing more. All down to timing. That’s my excuse. If I could ever be excused…

Standing there, naked, I regard the stranger in the glass; an exhibitionist, wanting to ‘show it all.’  I touch my breasts, and like a cheap copy cat, she does the same. My hands flutter over my body, gently caressing, and in the mirror, the whore imitates, vying for victorious attention.

Hands, slender and manicured, look no different since that day. No change at all, despite my mother’s childhood tales. A hairy cloven hoof did not appear, nor did my nails turn green and fall off. I hadn’t turned into an animal. The stories were all untrue, as I suspected they were.

I was just a woman, late twenties, good job, lovely marriage; a checklist of success. Everything I wanted I had. Except her.

Tears overwhelmed me. I dried them with the back of my beautiful hand. And she did the same. But had her hand been responsible too?

I paused on the thought as I reached for it. Cold and small in my hand. Like her. Somehow, she never left. She encapsulated my being; dominated my life. Strange, as that was what I was trying to avoid. And why I took the route I did. Assuring my freedom, but I met perpetual imprisonment.

Now, I needed release.

Drawing down, my skin pulled away like a well cooked Sunday joint. There was no pain. None I could feel. Everyday brought the torture of a life unlived. Dead with eyes still open. The blade marked out my existence; set the path to liberation.

I watched, fascinated, mesmerised by movement. In the mirror, her sleek throat, a soft paleness that had been the platform of million kisses. Such love misplaced.

Hands clasped tight around the shiny metal. I looked at her chin, tilted slighted to the left. Her hand slowly progressed across the paleness, leaving a thin trail of crimson.

Looking at her, I felt light-headed. I stared, at her hands soaked in glistening ruby droplets. My vision dipped and darkness gently gathered me in.

Had her hands held the duck-down pillow tight over her screams, until her incessant cries suffused to silence? Had she felt the flicker of resistance as the tiny body pushed against the force applied? Had she known that she’d taken another life?

The blade fell to the floor. Darkness wrapped tight around me. I knew in that moment that she did.