The police officer sits down across from her. Coffee? Tea? Like it’s no big deal. But it is.
The police officer has blond curls and friendly, blue eyes. Hers are dark brown and full of anger. And beneath that, fear.
There is a mirror hanging on the wall behind the police officer with the friendly eyes. She can see the cowlick on the back of the officer’s head, and a little bit of dark roots. The friendly officer might not be blonde after all.
The mirror bothers her. She stopped looking at herself a long time ago, after that first time he hit her – on her left temple, the spot had hurt for days – she learned to stop looking at herself. She carefully applied her make-up with a small mirror. One eye at a time. Lips. Cheeks. Once she caught a glimpse of herself in a store window and barely recognized what she saw.
The mirror is intimidating. Mirrors don’t lie.
But when she finally opens her mouth and speaks, for the fist time in years, the words flow more easily than she had expected. The officer listened. Her voice might have been shaky, yes, but she was doing it.
The words were finally out. The story was told. The girl in the mirror could finally start healing.
Photo credit: Oscar Keys (via Unsplash)