There's something wrong. There's something wrong in my bones and under my skin and it's jangling around in there, screaming at me. I have to get it out. I have to get it out of me.
Hold my breath and panic subsides. This is what I know:
The easy option is a slash away. Old habits are so very easy to return to if you want them back. In the looking glass, she beckons. Icy fingers are grasping, reaching, begging for a decent grip on my throat. Clearly, she's found a weak point.
I make her disappear again. I turn away from the mirror.
This, too, will pass.
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