The florescent light flickers and disappears, hiding the reflection in the mirror. A pale hand, nail polish peeling, reaches up and bats at it a couple of times, reviving the neon glow.

“Piece of shit.” Says the reflection of two crimson lips. The paper-white fingers, skin peeling at the nails, apply more color to those ever-fading lips. With fluttering eyelashes, black as tar and just as ugly, the lips pucker once, twice, three times, before a wad of Charmin demolishes the blood-red masterpiece.
She steps back to display a long, thin neck. The kind you see in an erotic vampire film. She brushes her shoulder-length ‘black #1” hair behind her, revealing a jutting collarbone.

Standing up on her toes, two a-cup breasts peak inside the silver frame of the mirror. Her fingers glide along the underside of the fleshy hills. She pushes them up, then lets them fall, pushes them up again, then together. Leaning forward, she thrusts her new, self-made cleavage against the cold glass. Letting out a deep sigh, her arms drop and her body falls back into its natural, hunched position. Glaring up at her reflection, she whispers to herself before turning out the light.

“I fucking hate you.”

* * * * *

The faucet roars as water rushes into the pearl colored tub. Shadows dance over the walls, papered in patterns of unnamable flowers. The base of the porcelain bath is lined with five mulberry candles. Their flames struggle to survive as they are splashed with drops of water diving over the two-foot wall.

Her reflection is in the mirror again. Sometimes it just won’t leave. It stays there, staring. Glaring. She drags a brush through her hair, over and over again. The candlelight makes her hair shine like metal. She grins at the mirror. Examines her crooked teeth. They stand like army men who are slightly drunk. The result of refusing to wear a retainer, after her parents threw away five thousand dollars on braces. Those army men are always drunk now, and always ugly.

The water begins to spill over the edge, extinguishing two of the candles. She turns the faucet off. Her skeleton fingertips, newly painted, slide her violet lace panties to the floor. Stepping carefully over the flames, she lowers herself into the warm water.

Tiny waves lap at her flesh. Consuming her legs – all but her knees – and devouring her torso. She covers her chest with her arms and rubs her face. Dark mascara tears begin to make their way down her cheeks before she submerses herself completely underwater.

She remains there for almost five minutes, without coming up for air, before her reflexes force her to out of the water to breathe in the mulberry scent. Choking, she leans over the edge of the tub. Water drips from her hair, killing another candle’s flame. She struggles to breathe regularly, then lies back into the tub.
Her blue eyes glance around at the various shapes in the room. The plastic shelves in each corner of the shower hold many bottles of shampoo, conditioner, bath salts and body wash. A black loofa sponge and a pink lady Bic razor are among these things.

She pushes the hair back from her face with both hands, closes her eyes and exhales. Then she reaches for the lady Bic. Without opening her eyes, she drags it sideways across her wrist. Again, and again, and again, until the water is no longer clear. She slams her head against the wall behind her and drops the razor into the crimson ocean in which she lies.

Her eyes open and she breathes in sharp, then out slowly. She begins to search for the pink lady Bic. The water grows darker as she struggles to feel for the razor. Waves rush over the edge of the tub and another candle drowns.

Giving up, she grabs the ring and pulls the rubber stopper out of the drain, creating a whirlpool, which appears black in the dim light of the last remaining candle. She reaches for a towel and wraps it around her wrist. Climbs out of the tub and pulls her violet lace panties back on. Consoling her reflection, she squeezes her wrist and mumbles to the mirror, “Maybe next time.”