Fire Heart's Poems and Shorts

She looked out with bleary eyes to the figure standing at the end of her bed, before reaching for the bottle as she felt a spark of guilt. She had let her down again Probably. She didn’t even know how this time. She could just see, from the look she was receiving, that she had.

Her dry cracked lips opened and her voice sounded so horse as she spoke, “What do you want?”

The figure at the end sighed, and stared at the bottle in her hand. “Why do you do this? Surround yourself in self pity? What gives you the right? The rest of the world is outside and tey are getting on with things. Your teenage girls are downstairs, waiting for Mum to make tea, or even just to tell them to get food, if not to feed them and help them with the struggle that they are starting to go through.”

She stared at the bottle, the familiar path of shame burning through her. She drank from the bottle and looked at her hands, muttering under her breath, “Shut-up.”

“Do you even have a clue? Do you have any idea what you are doing?”

Finally she lifted her head back up and looked into the aged eyes before her. They were sunken and the skin surrounding them was starting to have a wax like look to it, and was pale, making her eyes yellow in ontrast. She went to touch her own face and the figure copied her, a look of anger and shock at what she was feeling and seeing etched clearly on her face.

With a feral cry, she threw the bottle at the mirror before her, and the shards sprinkled to the floor, breaking the spell that she had caught herself up in.