I slowly made my way along the narrow grotto ally, stepping over heaps of trash. Tears ran down my face as I scaled a broken brick wall and entered an abandoned attic. On the back wall of the attic hung a cracked mirror. I stepped over the splintering boards and approached the mirror.
My reflection wore a lovely, golden-orange dress with a matching sun hat. I glanced down at my urchin's patch work and back at my reflection. It was me in the mirror, yes, but not exactly. I glanced down at my scarred arms, almost covered by sleeves that weren't quite long enough. I looked like a stranger, yes, but at the same time, I was no different. . .
I still cared for my urchins, I still cared for my friends, I still fought for the Resistance. What difference made a different dress? What difference made how I worded things? Wasn't I the same?
I reached out to the mirror and touched my reflection. The image in the mirror reached back. Was she really so much different then me? What did others see in her. . . or not see. . ? If I stopped socializing in my urchin's patchwork, would anyone care? What difference does a new outfit make? I didn't even know he knew I existed! Why would he care about what I do, how I talk, what I wear. Why would he care?
The question hung in the empty attic air. My reflection trembled for a moment before being replaced with my urchin's patchwork. I hung my head and sank down beside the mirror.
I wish. . . I wish. . . I wish you knew how much that hurts inside.