Stand in the mirror, and see the spots: deep, angry splotches, and fleshy pits which mar the skin on your back. Scratch. Scratch. Blood wells up, and you pull on your shirt, smearing it with pain which only fades in the wash. Scratch. Scratch. And there’s blood under your nails, your bitten, ravaged nails with their shredded skin and their jagged edges. You tear at a hangnail, and reach up to twist a finger in your hair. Lank. Greasy. Dull. It doesn’t matter what you do, it never shines like it did when you got it cut. One pull and it’s gone, and you’re gasping with pain, and strands of hair fall to the floor. The top of your head out tufted, the hair only just re-growing from the last time you tried to tear it out.
And the girl in the mirror smiles.