Reflection

Reflection

By Rachel Sullivan
Burlington High School, Grade 11

"I hate you."
She looks up, startled, innocently wide eyes gazing back, astonished, into my own.
"Look at you. You're repulsive. How can I not hate you?"
She looks down, fingering the worn, tattered edges of her graying hoodie, her breath catching audibly in her throat.
"You're disgusting. I bet that hasn't been washed in weeks."
She looks up quickly, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, making them shine in the harsh lighting.
"And lets not forget those jeans," I add, glancing down at the hole-riddled atrocities, "they really don't do anything for that pear shape you've got going on."
Her hands go immediately, almost protectively, to her midsection, causing her to double over slightly, shoulders hunching in shame.
I shake my head at her, "It's too bad none of those diets are working for you. Seriously. You must just have been a born cow, since you hardly eat anything."
I can tell I hit a nerve as her lip quivers, but what would normally be a sympathetic reaction fast becomes disgust at the sight of her pathetic whimpering.
"You really don't have a spine, do you? I guess that's why you never win anything. That's probably also why you suck at sports. Remember gym last week when that puny little kid managed to knock you over, and then everyone laughed? That must have been so embarrassing! Then again, that kind of stuff happens to losers like you all the time, so maybe by now you've built up an immunity to it."
Clearly not, as tears begin to roll down her pasty cheeks, dribbling down her chin and landing on her grimy sweatshirt. Then again, I wouldn't have expected anything less from a wretch like her.
"Oh, don't cry," I growl at her, "it only makes me hate you more."
She bites her lip and does her best to stop the tears, but she doesn't quite succeed in arresting her clearly visible anguish.
"I bet you'd shut up real quick if Paul was here."
That catches her attention, and I laugh at the pure ridiculousness of her schoolgirl crush.
"Yeah, I bet you would. He's real cute, isn't he? Of course, he only goes out with cool, skinny, clean, pretty girls, so I wouldn't exactly hold my breath if I was you."
"He could like me," she whispers, voice cracking with emotion, "You don't know."
I snort derisively, "Yeah. Sure. What was that thing he said to you the other day in the lunch line? As I recall, it was pretty romantic."
She looks down at the floor, hugging herself, "That doesn't matter."
"Sure it does. He asked you to move. That's the most acknowledgement he's ever given you, and that's got to count for something."
"Enough!" She yells, eyes livid with feeling, "I've had enough! Just leave me alone!"
I shake my head slowly, "No, you haven't. Not yet. You see, I just can't live with you like this. Something has to be done."
She looks at me, recoiling within herself, almost as if she knows what I'm about to do.
Hot, white electricity shoots through my veins as I look at her, seeing her greasy hair, vacant eyes, dirty clothes, and pasty white skin.
I hate her.
I really hate her.
With a cry full of loathing and rage, I raise my fist and throw all my weight behind it, striking her squarely in the face.
A scream.
A flash of pain.
And then her image explodes, the glass shattering as the mirror breaks, the sharp pieces shredding my skin and spilling my blood all over the ground.