She shoved the door open with her bloody shoulder and stumbled inside. Her breathing was erratic, her heart racing, her face pale. Everything she once knew was gone. She was crying, and yet the tears refused to fall.
Moving slowly, she reached the bathroom sink and stared at her disheveled reflection. Her hair was a tangled mess, her clothes torn and askew, her makeup smeared. It was an unforgiving sight.
She turned on the faucet, the water rushing as she began wiping her face clean, revealing smooth, glowing skin beneath the grime. For a moment, she didn’t recognize the reflection staring back at her. The girl in the mirror looked foreign, as though she had crawled out of a nightmare and left someone else behind.
Her fingers trembled as they clutched the porcelain, knuckles white, drops of blood spattering against the pale surface. She inhaled sharply; ragged, broken, like the gasp of someone drowning. The silence of the house pressed down on her chest, heavier than the wounds across her skin.
The faucet hissed, water running endlessly, a cruel reminder that time had not stopped even though her world had. She splashed her face again, the cold biting, desperate to anchor her to reality. But nothing felt real anymore. Not the sting of her cuts, not the ache in her ribs, not even the hollow echo of her sobs rattling in her throat.
She leaned closer to the mirror, eyes locking on her own. A question lingered there, unspoken but screaming louder than anything else: Who am I now?
And then applause erupted behind her.
“Beautifully played, Grace!” her manager exclaimed. “You’re improving with every show!”
Grace turned, forcing a smile as her makeup artist hurried over, gently peeling the blood pack from her shoulder and wiping her clean.
“Thank you,” she replied, her voice steady but distant. “I really have connected with my character.”
Turning back to the mirror, she met her reflection once more. A faint, uneasy smile touched her lips as she muttered under her breath, I really have.