‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚Crimson Silence ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧

"The mirror was a fractured blur. Through the cracks, a different world stared back."

The harsh, flickering beam of light of the inky bathroom struck Lila on the face like a blinding spotlight that starkly highlighted her cavernous cheekbones, wispy amber hair, and shadowed under eyes. It was exactly 2:31 a.m., and she had a thick stream of dark crimson dripping from her white top, as well as chilly sweat that had heavily adhered to her hair and skin like thick glue. 

Only, the blood wasn’t hers. 

The teenager, who had a surprisingly bony and tall stature, placed her palms on the bathroom sink, hyperventilating, her loud breaths grinding and echoey in the cool room. Ignoring the red that stained the porcelain white, she tilted her head upwards, the delicate tip of her nose pointed toward the buzzing ventilation fan. The way in which the humid air reeked of hot, wet iron made her insides churn. She was suffocating—not from the blood, but from the weight of everything inside her. Tears pooled in her throat, but the air around her smelled thick with dust and chemicals, a sickly reminder of her alienation. What had she done? She faced the cracking mirror and met the icy glaucous eyes that matched her own, soaking in its glassy, hollow appearance. Lila howled.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

She despondently turned her back to the reflection. Away from the pain. Herself. And the scars that ululated the many unspoken, gruesome years of terror. What had she done to deserve this? To deserve the cruel and punishing ways in which life had been snatched from her? Lila inhaled deeply, not recognising the ghostly stranger that stood before her. Despite everything, she was numb, and reality had become hazy like a massive kaleidoscope of confusion and panic. It was as if her entire being had been consumed by a fever dream where reality, time and morality became fuzzy. Before Lila knew it, she’d stood for an entire hour simply hyperventilating and examining her hands over and over again, disbelief suffocating her mind. Curled in a tight ball, Lila absorbed the earthy scent of sweat and caking blood on her knees. She didn’t mind. Humans reeked naturally of death, terror, and decay anyway— unless they had been lathered with soap and layers of sickly sweet perfume. Upon locking the door, she cursed her friends for staining her clothes, the inevitably approaching sirens, and eventually herself. As a child, she had always been isolated. A freak of nature. Quiet. So quiet, that not a single word of help was emitted from her mouth when life descended into hell. That was until Lila burst. Then all the screams came. With a final sigh, Lila bowed her head and calmly resigned to the claustrophobic bathroom and the cold tiles. The police would come, and she’d do nothing to resist. There was no regret. What had been done was set in stone. Nothing could be fixed now. She’d thought of breaking down. She’d thought of escaping, but she found herself void of feeling. Of human. Of herself.

It was exactly 4:30 a.m. when Lila fell asleep. She’d fallen asleep as the girl with abysmal holes in her heart. A heart that trembled both in wishing and in longing.

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About the Author | Holly Wong is currently attending high school. She recently attended creative writing programs at a university and local library and has also published a book last year during an additional program at school. She enjoys creative arts.

Submitted November 18, 2024