The Girl Through the Glass

She stands alone, staring at me through the glass. A shapeless black dress hangs to the knees of her scrawny body. Marks decorate her legs; the yellowish hue of an old bruise, a faded scar from a cut. Her dark hair, thin and stringy, falls just below her shoulders.
Her right hand is by her side, her left hidden behind her back. The sadness shining in her eyes engulfs me. It's only when she slowly exposes her left hand, the gleam of something catching in the artificial light, that I manage to shift my gaze from them. Her bony fingers clutch a long knife.
In one gradual movement, she draws it across her throat, her blood smearing the blade as it seeps from the wound.
I feel a sharp sting at my own throat, and when I touch it my hand comes away stained with a thick, dark liquid. My knees buckle and I crash forward into the glass dividing us.
The mirror shatters around me.