Grelle was, well..

Hesitant, was one word for it. Paralyzed. Standing in front of a full-length mirror, she could neither move away nor continue what she had wanted to do. The corset she was planning to don now lay on the floor, abandoned wholly in favour of picking at her own reflection (as one would a scab, some could say).

What was the point of it, anyway? No matter how hard she cinched her waist, or how many pettis she wore, her body would remain same in the reflection under all the clothes. The stubborn, treacherous thing.

She was never particularly timid, or shy about her appearance - there was little reason to, she liked to think - but then there were these.. bouts, for no better word, of crushing inadequacy, that would see her suddenly queasy at the sight of her own self.

She glared at her mirror once again, with defiance that she'd regret in the very next heartbeat. Oh, how it mocked her, all of her flaws and shortcomings displayed with perfect accuracy. There was no lady in the looking glass, no Grelle- merely a mistake of God, a deviant, a man who was making a mockery of himself, playing at being something he could never be, and--

...The stream of poison pouring from her mind and down her throat was shattered with the screech of broken glass. Her gaze flicks, to the dull ache in her knuckles, only to come rest on the broken skin. The blood that bubbled up from the gashes was almost like crimson flowers unfurling on the ridges, a beauty borne from violence. Almost poetic, were she in a better mood.

But she wasn't. And it also wasn't violence - not the pretty, heated kind to wax lyricals of. Merely an impulse which broke the mirror.

Serves it right, she decides spitefully. To hell with that blasted thing.

And as she stand there, hand bleeding, amidst the strewn-about shards of a looking glass, the door creaked open behind her.

Shit.