** Summer Simms, female no. 21, continued from...Big Stick Ideology
Summer barely recognized herself anymore. She was seated cross-legged on the floor in front of a large floor-length mirror in one of the upstairs bedrooms, the contents of her first aid kit scattered around her; scissors, gauze, tape, disinfectant and the like. She did everything she could for her left hand, taping the two broken fingers together and then bent down to prevent them from catching on anything. It wasn't much and it did nothing to alleviate the dull throb radiating from them, but it would relieve some of the instinct to constantly baby the hand.
After that, she remained poised in front of the mirror, lost in her own reflection. Whoever was looking back at her wasn't someone she recognized, the dirty girl with the maimed hand on the other side. Her face was covered in a thin film of dirt and spots of dried blood splatter, the only clean parts where the trails of sweat had passed through. Her hair hung in a greasy curtain, braids having come completely undone during the fight. Most of her makeup had run, leaving thin lines of black around her eyes, which themselves seemed deeply sunken and ringed with exhaustion. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept, her body running on a cocktail of fear and adrenaline for the last however many days.
But it was worth it.
Everything that happened was worth it because they liked her.
They'd even given her donuts and milk along with her gun, all which lay on the dining table downstairs now that theft was no longer a concern.
She looked at the camera over her shoulder through the mirror, mounted in the corner of the room, it's eye focused on her intently.
She had to do what she did and they understood that and they didn't hate her for it.
Mr. Danya even called her his favorite.
Nobody had ever called her their favorite before. It was different than at home, where she had nobody competing for her parents love. There were hundreds of kids on the island with her and out of all of them, she was was his favorite.
She glanced back at her reflection, grimacing slightly at the vision. She used to be so pretty, perfect skin and hair and teeth, it was something she prided herself on, feeling that people couldn't hate her if she put effort into her appearance. But that didn't matter here. She was coated in dirt and blood and it didn't matter. They still liked her. She didn't have to pretend anymore or hold anything back, not here. Here she could do anything or be anyone she wanted and they wouldn't hate her for it.
Because she was their favorite.
She grasped a strand of hair with the three fingers on her left hand, running it down the greasy length, grabbing the pair of scissors on the floor with her good hand in the meantime. For a moment, she stared silently at her reflection, a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
There weren't consequences anymore. No more holding anything in.
She was hesitant at first, cutting only a small bit from the bottom of the strand, having to saw slightly with the dull scissors. Then a little more, gaining speed until eventually her cuts lost all rhyme and reason, pulling random strands from all over her head and hacking them off, savoring the crunch of the hair being cut loose. Each cut took more length than the last, until eventually the scissors were flush against scalp. She dropped her hands to her lap, once more taking in her reflection. What was left of her hair protruded in uneven lengths and what she cut coated her lap and the floor around her. She hadn't realized she was crying until she saw herself in the mirror, the tears tracing a clean trail through the grime on her face.
It felt like she couldn't breath, like her chest was tightening around her lungs.
She couldn't think.
Couldn't focus.
Her bad hand darted to her face, good fingers pulling down on the skin, smearing more of the mascara deeper down her face. Her other hand darted upwards, trying to pull at what little hair she had left, but only managing to dig her nails painfully into her scalp. She could hear herself screaming at the top of her lungs.
The world felt like it was closing in on her. Every emotion weighed heavily on her, every thought, regret, everything she'd done and everything she missed, every excuse she tried to make.
She didn't know when she'd gotten to her feet, but before she knew it she was shoving the heavy oak framed mirror to the floor, still screaming angrily as it shattered below her. The camera behind her resounded with it's familiar buzzing, so loud that it felt like it was against her ear drums.
"Stop. Looking. At. Me," She screamed, her voice somewhere between begging and anger, attempting to cause as much damage as she could between words, pulling and haphazardly throwing the sheets and pillows from the bed before collapsing to a sobbing pile on the ground, head tucked between her elbows.
She stayed like that for a long while, long after the crying stopped, replaced by her rhythmic chanting.
"I'm sorry," She whispered over and over again to nobody in particular, voice seemingly weakening with each iteration.
Withdrawing from her shell after awhile, she found the camera still positioned motionless in the corner, her bleary eyes meeting with the hollow lens.
"I'm sorry," her voice cracking, as if once again on the verge of tears. "I didn't mean it. Please don't leave me. Please."
She dropped once more to her cocoon, her eyes closing as she laid amongst the wreckage in the room, whispering her plea until the very moments sleep took her.
** Summer Simms, female no. 21, continued in...
