Orbis in Alba

i

A pulsing ache engulfs my forehead. The light shining through the thin white curtains is too bright. My eyes squint and blink in attempt to adjust. The blankets encase me like a cocoon. Strands of wispy blonde hair cover my sleepy face. The dusty mirror across from my bed is hard to look at when I see those dull blue flecks staring back at me.

In a single smooth motion, I sit up. The morning light catches my white night shirt as the blankets fall from my torso. It's almost robotic how instinctively I swing my bare legs over the side of my mattress. Cold wood bites my toes and creaks as I stand. My arms reach high above my head in an attempt to stretch the tension out of my shoulders, then fall back to my sides once I realize it's not working.

Small weightless foot steps guide me to the bathroom door. The metal of the handle was icy to the touch. The hinges let out a low creak as I pushed the door inwards. The bathroom was dark and, like everything else, cold. With a flick of the light switch, a bright white light chases the shadows away to their corners. Those same blue orbs gaze at me from the mirror. Her face is so pale and delicate. Body thin, arms and legs almost skeletal, hair long and cascading down her back in a light blonde curtain. I still can't trust that the reflection is truly mine.

Water rains down from the shiny shower head. My night clothes lay on the floor. Warm droplets drip from my head down to my feet. Pale skin blends into the white ceramic. Soapy hands run through my hair, and soft cloth scrubs my porcelain body. I shiver as the warm water makes me realize just how cold I am. Glassy bubbles are washed down the drain between my feet.

A soft cotton towel wraps my shivering shoulders. The figure in the mirror looks even more ghastly than before. Thinner now that her body is exposed, stringy wet hair hangs in front of those doll like blue eyes. I wrap myself in the towel and run my thin fingers through the damp knots in my hair. The girl in the mirror copies every move, all while her eyes lock with mine. I never liked her all that much.

Wet foot prints follow me to my closet. The wooden door slides open. White T-shirts, white jeans, white dresses, white tank tops, white skirts and shorts. A monochrome wardrobe. I pull on a pair of under garments. The thin fabric of a dress slips over my head and covers my body. My shoulders are exposed, but I don't mind. According to the woman in the magazine people like that. Nimble fingers weave my partially damp hair into a long braid. Everything is so automatic at this point. Robotic. Fake.

And it's all I know.