“You’re drunk,” the girl in the mirror tells you. She’s staring at the long, narrow shard of glass in your hand. Blood still drips from it.

“Doesn’t matter, Quinn. She’s already dead,” you answer her. You throw the shard at her, shattering the mirror.

Turning around, you lean against the counter and gaze at the body crumpled on the floor in front of you. Her dress is tattered, bloodstained. Her arms are covered in crusty, half-dried blood, and bruises. Her curls spill around her head, revealing her swollen face, bloody nose and blackened eye. You pull a few strands of her blonde hair from your fingers, dropping them carelessly on the tiled floor. A pang of jealousy hits you as you realize even in death she is pretty. Possibly prettier than you. How does that make you feel? Ugly? Less-important? Actually, not important at all, at least not to him. After all, he was making out with her, not you. Little b****. Both of them, really. She deserved what she got, and he deserves what’s coming. At least this little tramp wouldn’t bother you anymore. What the h*** do you do with the body?

“S***,” you whisper. D*** body.

The girl murmurs, interrupting your thoughts. Hatred once again boils inside you as watch a tear seep from the corner of her eye, interrupting her eyeliner and trailing mascara and blood down her temple.

Reaching behind you, you finger one of the shards from the mirror. Feeling it slice your hand, you pause. The girl’s eyes flutter open, and she sees you. Whipping your arm around, you cut the air with the sliver of glass, lunging at her.

She drags herself backwards, causing you to miss, and land on the tile. You ignore the pain in your nose and the blood dripping into your mouth, and advance towards her. She has backed herself into the corner, cowering. For a minute, you allow yourself to feel powerful, pausing to stare at her, trembling, shrinking into the corner, trying to hide.

The bathroom door cracks open slightly and you freeze, listening to the voice. His voice.

“Hey, Babe, you in there? They’re serving dinner.” You eye the girl, still trying to shrink into the corner. You arch your eyebrow and tilt your head in the direction of the door.

She opens her mouth to speak. Nothing comes out. She licks her lips and cringes at the metallic taste. “I…” she hiccups and tears spill freely from her eyes.

“Are you okay?” his worried tone sickens you. “Hailey?” Your stare turns to a cold, hard glare. She whimpers. You tell her to answer him. She bites her lip, and opens her mouth to speak.

“Help me,” she moans. The door opens and he barges in, looking from her to you, horror taking over his face. You fly at him, weapon aimed at his stupid, broad chest. You’re fast, but he’s faster. He catches your wrist and spins you around, knocking the glass from your hand. He holds your arm around your neck and his other arm pins yours to your stomach. You kick your legs towards her, but he holds you tightly. She runs from the room, no doubt to get a teacher. You let your muscles loosen and allow yourself to pretend he missed you and now holds you lovingly against him. He doesn’t love you. Not anymore.