A depressing image stands only inches from me, a young girl around the age of fifteen or so. Her shaggy, unbrushed brunette hair falls down just past her shoulders. Her hazel, but bloodshot eyes, hold a painful story deep inside, and have a faraway, almost sad look to them. They barely stay open, and have dark purple rings underneath them.
She has faint freckles splattered across her cheeks. They look almost faded, just like the color in her face. And her cheekbones stick out just a bit too far out of her gaunt looking face.
She stands lifelessly, wearing a sagging white t-shirt that goes to her knobby knees. The only part of her legs that show, are shaking, barely holding her up, and are badly bruised.
Her too-skinny arms hang dead at her sides, and are bruised just as badly as her legs. The girl’s hands are squeezed tightly, clammy and white. Her nails are ragged from biting them constantly.
I slowly take in this image in front of me. It brings tears to my eyes to see how weak and lost she looks. I hear a rasping noise rip from her throat, maybe she’s crying too, but I can’t bring myself to look up at her face again. My heart burns for this girl and I feel the desperate need to help her.
As I reach out hesitantly to touch her hand, hoping to bring comfort to her, the silence is deafening. She reaches out to me too, yearning for someone to hold and understand her. But where our two hands should meet, is only a hard, glass wall. I let out a soft gasp and my horror-filled eyes meet hers. She is mimicking my expression, tears pouring over the rims of her eyes, and I realize that I am standing in front of a mirror.
