It'd been days.

She only noticed it as she was combing her hair out in the morning, and crumbs of Twix sifted out of a strand. She must have touched her hair at some point in the night, after falling asleep without washing her hands. She combed the strand religiously until it was clean, and then dropped it against her shoulder. She watched it curl, effortlessly, until it was shaped in a perfect s. Then she looked up at the mirror and it came to her in a sudden, chilling epiphany. She was just looking at herself in a mirror.

She wasn't seeing a monster. She wasn't suffering from hallucinatory visions of her own face warping and smiling at her when she wasn't smiling at all. She wasn't hearing a voice taunt her, to remind her of what she really was. She was just looking in a mirror, and all she saw when she looked through was a lifeless reflection. Just her. Nobody else.

She did not feel Lawr's hand on her shoulder. She didn't see him standing there, his expression unreadable and yet always beckoning. She didn't see a maddening curl of smoke wafting up around gaunt cheekbones and that glinty, hobo stare of a man who had no right to judge, but always managed to get the job done. She couldn't see her uncle in the shadowed darkness of her reflected closet, far behind her. It was just a closet, with clothes and stuffed animals and shoes. There was no one there but her.

And she felt it, for the first time in a very long time. She felt the bone deep loneliness that drove her to choose this lifestyle in the first place. Her skin ached for touch, any touch at all. Her lips tingled, a solemn reminder that no one was kissing them. And her hands, as she turned to stare at her open palms again, were so empty they hurt to look at.

She remembered, in the silence of her room and her mind, why she'd walked down this path in the first place. Why she'd found Peyton in her bed. Why coming to see Otto led to being in his bed within mere minutes of arrival. She remembered why it had never felt like prostitution when she'd ******** her way into a place to live, because it had been her choice. Always her choice. That was what mattered.

She put down the hairbrush, and stared at the empty room in the mirror.

If she'd asked somebody, she knew they would try and tell her this was all part of growing up. Being alone is not so bad, they'd say. You have time to find yourself. Be yourself. Learn who you really are. But Maebe knew exactly who she was, and that person lived in the silence. She longed to be as far away from there as possible, where noise and sex and food and life throbbed in an endless cycle of distraction and joy. She wanted to feel hands running down her body, holding her close and seeping the heat right out of her. She wanted nails tearing her skin, and teeth tugging until the colors changed. She wanted to feel alive again. Not this. Not this half-life of comfort and content. Anything but this.

She opened up a bright red lipstick, twisted it out, and leaned in to draw a comically large smile right where her lips were reflected. The lipstick went further to fill in huge holes where her eyes were, until she couldn't see them anymore. She smashed it in where her nose was, and circled around her pretty, perfect little face. Then she closed her lipstick, and stared at the clown in the mirror.

She scooted her little pink chair to the left. And again. And again. Now, she could see her face again, and the clown was right beside her, floating on its own in the silent, empty room. It looked like a b-rated horror movie graphic. She smiled, and it smiled back.

That was better.

Now she was able to comb her hair in peace. She felt the constant watch of red, swirly eyes watching her as she brushed and brushed until her curls shone like gold. She put the brush down, and bent in to apply her makeup. The clown watched how well she was able to line her eyes, without over-expressing the details. It watched her undress, until she was naked and exposed in the mirror. It watched her run her own hands down her face, and brush against her lips. It watched her fingers caress the curves and indents of her body, and touch herself where she needed to be touched. It was there, because she'd invited it to be. Because that was all she needed, she told herself. To not be alone.

There, she told herself. Was that so hard?