See: a girl looking at herself in the mirror. Taste: cotton, dry mouth, steam leftover from shower. Smell: shampoo, toothpaste. Touch: hairbrush, feel nervous, scared. Hear: people yelling, fighting.
I disappoint myself. It isn't my fault, really. I look in the mirror and see this beat up girl, and all I can do is marvel that she is me. There's a cut aabove her black eye, which I have trouble seeing. A towel is wrapped around her. Her wet hair clings to her face, and I smell the familiar scent of lavender shampoo. She may be a bit battered but at least she is clean. The rest of the world is blocked from view by the steam that had collected on the looking glass. This girl's parents are fighting downstairs, and loudly. They curse and scream, blaming the other for her mistake. She is numb to it by then; this is not thought of as a strength, but rather a pathetic inability to cope. She sighs. Her mouth opens slightly. With more air let in - with breathing, living - her mouth becomes dry again. THere is still cotton on her mouth, despite the bleeding having stopped long ago. Her eyes find there way to her hands. Fingers are lightly touching a hairbrush, unsure if they really want it or not. Her head dips. She smells the other two scents in the bathroom, none of them mixing but rather staying separated. . . like her family. There is toothpaste - the taste her boyfriend compliments - and a slight hint of cologne; her brother uses this bathroom, too. She looks back up in the mirror. I am reminded that she is me, and a great nervousness bubbles up inside of me, quickly turning into fear. Before my eyes even start to tear up I go emotionally numb. I am not strong enough to cope. I disappoint myself.