The Stranger in the Mirror

Dark brown eyes gazed back, staring deep into her soul. They were familiar, but at the same time a complete stranger.

Did you know, the strangest face to you is your own?

Everyday, we encounter millions of people, thousands pass you by in the blink of an eye. And yet, none of these are stranger to your mind's eye than your own.

You see these people in your dreams, their brief flashes enough to subconsciously imprint themselves into your life permanently. We may never see them again, but we see them all the same.

Somehow these strangers are beautiful. They mock us with their beauty; their flawlessness, their omnipresent perfection. No matter what, we are unable to attain their level of grace.

It's so easy to pick out our own imperfections, the flaws and the blemishes, our scars and our bruises.

Why is it so? What spurred these thoughts in our hearts? Was it a but a snide remark from a parent? Or was it said with a teasing grin from our closest of friends? Maybe it was an offhand remark made by someone we know towards someone else, and then we can't help but think if they thought the same way about us.

Would they have said the same thing if that was us and we were but a stranger?

A tiny tear slips down her cheek. It may not be blood, but it burns all the same.

She thinks of the sacrifices they've made, what they've done to get thus far. A little cut means nothing when thousands have perished in battle.

And yet it hurts all the same.

The woman before her is unfamiliar. The lady dressed in violet robes is nothing like the girl with pigtails in her hair, running around without a care in the world.

She falls.

The mirror shatters with her.

Shards of glass impale her skin, dull alabaster turning vibrant as crimson red ribbons wrap around her shaking torso.

But she doesn't flinch. No, she holds her head up high. She is now the ruler of an unknown land. She will have to face challenges beyond her comprehension, beyond the miniscule knowledge she's been bestowed throughout her short 12 years of life. She cannot afford to be afraid. Or weak.

She blinks.

Smoke adorns her dress, ashes of the fallen dust her eyelashes. Flames lick all around her.

Her world as she knows it is crumbling before her yet again.

She breathes it in.

It has been long since the air tasted sweet. Even the mountain tops, cold enough to extinguish any fire, was filled with the snow-like ash.

How funny would it be to be a child once more, having a snowball fight in the midst of what they had presumed to be winter. The child she once was would have been aghast that she had actually thrown someone's brother in a simple game, or laid in someone's daughter as she attempted to make a snow angel.

Yes, she is far from who she was.

The shards disperse fractals of light throughout the room, bathing it in a wide array of rainbows. Some were long while others were cut off abruptly; nasty brothers being too selfish to let another shine.

She follows them, encircling the room, picking up the tiniest of shards along the way and holding them ever so gently, as if they were diamonds.

Perhaps they were in their own right.

Glass was now a rare commodity, a luxury few could afford. Her broken mirror alone would've cost a thousand, these microscopic pieces amassing a near million if someone played their cards right.

She counts them one-by-one, handling them with the greatest care possible. Not one was to slip from her grasp.

She stands in front of the largest piece, hardly big enough to make a handheld mirror, but it would do.

Her hands are quick and deft, pushing in the shards into the tears of her dress, masking their imperfections, amplifying the beauty that isn't there. She applies the right amount of pressure; just enough to get it to latch onto her dress, but not nearly enough to cut herself.

When it's done, she puts on her crown.

It's gems shine as does her dress. It is indeed the perfect ensemble for a red blooded queen as she is.

She does remember though, to add the final touches.

She recounts the leftover diamonds. One... Two... Three...

Thirty...

That can't be right, she had thirty one.

One... Two... Three... Thirty...

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, opening them once again to see the stranger's brown eyes looking into her own.

Maybe it was a mistake, a childish one at that. Maybe she picked up one less than she thought. Maybe she added one more into her dress than she had counted...

No matter, she must prepare.

With just as much care, she slips the crude diamonds into her hair. First, along her hairline, then into her updo.

She counts them as she does, watching as the stranger becomes an alien, turning into someone nothing like the girl she used to know. The girl she used to be.

Thirty...

She counts as she places the last one, barely feeling as it slips through her fingers and down her neck.

It happens in an instant. It's corner nicking her skin, cutting into her jugular. A new ribbon joins the others, flowing down the stream running the length of her petite body.

She doesn't feel any different, blood baths were something she was used to.

But there was something different.

Within minutes she was choking, her own blood filling her mouth, constricting the already narrow airways.

She struggles for breath, but it is to no avail.

She falls once again, the glass diamonds spilling out around her like an elaborate trap, daring anyone who approaches to tempt death.

A door opens, and a rainbow forms.

"The queen is dead!" A voice shouts.

They cautiously approach her, their standard issue shoes protecting their soles from the splinters beneath them. They finger the shard in their hand - crunching the thirty with each step - taunting her with it as they whisper, "Thirty one" over and over before leaving her for dead.

As the light left her eyes, she saw but a shell of the girl, the last glimpse of her before she became a total stranger - the Stranger in the Mirror - and left for the unknown.