In the grip of the fever that broke you before, but this time it's worse because it's self-inflicted.
Now in the mirror, a girl you once knew stares back, but she's not the same and you're not the same. You break down and she watches blankly, because that's all she can do. She used to smile back, but she got tired of faking smiles for her own benefit. Lying to yourself is harder when you can see tear tracks under your eyes. Her eyes are too big for her face; they unnerve you and make you look away.
Then all the talking around you turns into a dull buzz that you can't decipher because your ears are ringing. Someone screamed, in the depths of your consciousness, and you can't remember who, or when and least of all why. Safer to blame it on yourself, keep your hands in your pockets and keep on walking.
The demons from your past are manifested into people with pretty names, who follow and speak to you. Some are beautiful, "I'm here for you darling" and surround you in warm light. Some just add to your narcissism "You're beautiful, everybody wants you." Some are just ghostly, melancholic whispers "Don't mind me, I won't be staying long." another, coquettishly "Touch me here..." while still another hates you passionately "I want to strangle you in your sleep" and the last merely stands in a corner, silently promising your demise.
These are the voices that mix and spin and merge together to create a dull roar that lingers at the back of your mind, making it hard to concentrate. Every once in a while a certain voice will speak the loudest, and you are obliged to listen to its every word, drink it in and hold them dear. You, my darling, are suffering from the worst form of vanity.
You swear that they're watching you, and you can feel the burn of their eyes, even when everyone is too wrapped up in themselves to pay attention to the lost little girl in the audience. Because the house lights are too bright and the faces that are turned towards you are featureless masks.
The November air surrounds you in comforting shades of green, a whisper on the warm air is sent from across the seas. It tells you to 'rest easy, I'm coming to find you soon', but you've changed since then, so you promise to wear the red dress. The one printed with roses that you always thought was nothing special but everyone else said you looked gorgeous.
The girl in the mirror has dark eyes and matching hair, and red lipstick that stained everything. The collars of married men are not an exception. So very different from the girl who hung the old, round mirror on her bedroom wall as a reminder of old faces and old houses only a year before. The only differences seem to be hair dye and lower necklines but surface differences are only skin deep. Descriptions of her character are a waste of words, she has one, I'm sure. But it's buried under so many false smiles and French perfume that it can be overlooked.
A little child is suffering over his spelling in class. Hides his face in the wooden desk and tries to ignore the laughing of the other children. Now at the board with the chalk in his hand, trying to write the answer to the sum, but every time it appears right the chalk will snap, he'll go searching for the piece and lose concentration. Every single time.
He's drunk on her self-confidence, but she won't give him the time of day. Maybe those kind of girls aren't worth it. A vial of liquid amber around her neck, rivalling a string of pearls. The colour still matches her eyes.