I felt then somewhere near the lowest place on Earth. I was not yet in Hell, I was sure, for Hell was only for kinder things. Staring this vileness in the face and knowing that its face was mine as well was too much to bear; yet, I could naught but bear it.

I wanted to lash out and strike the mirror in front of me, with my nearly bare hands, or with some other instrument of destroying. I was forced to stare at this mirror, which stared cruelly back, presenting to my dark eyes only myself — a stark, uncompromising reality; a freakish dystopia would have been kinder.

My face was scratched; I could see that in the mirror, but more clearly, my countenance was scarred. I knew the gash there on my forehead would not heal cleanly. I knew for the rest of my life it would sneer secretly at me in every reflection, at every opportunity.

All these things were silent, though. My tears, my sobs all too choked to hear even inside my own head. Only my hands screamed disbelief at my deed. Then they wailed curses against me the guilty. Finally, they cried, helpless to do anything else.

These hands were the final torture for me. Everything I ever would do, produce, commit from then on would be blackened by the tears now spilling from them, bare save for their coat of red. With the dawn of horror too large, I shielded myself piteously with my crying fists.

A repost from a site I came across in a Google image search. It was moving and while I thought to come up with my own ideas for exactly why the person in the image was how she was, no words could match the sense of feeling that the above has accomplished. Photography/Digital Image Credit: Rupa