Free In the Nick of Time by Tiana Laveen

freshly hung mirror. She slowed to a crawl, her head still spinning at top speed as if she’d been on some crazy revolving merry-go-round. She’d given herself a natural high but was coming down fast and hard. She was certain she’d stood there an hour, unmoving, frozen. She took several steps forward toward the mirror.
    Aren’t you an odd looking bird?
    She smirked.
    She reached upward and slowly removed her black satin scarf, which was tied and knotted to the side with a rhinestone adornment. It slid slowly across her buzzed, newborn tresses and she clutched it loosely amongst her fingers as she inspected herself, going over her body inch by torturous inch…
    My hair is growing out nicely. Hopefully this time it won’t fall out again…
    She ran her fingertips across her scalp, feeling the short, soft strands, relishing the slickness as they burst free, new and screaming for a chance to thrive.
    My eyes are little too close together, but they’ve always been…nothing I can do about that. I still like them though.
    She smiled ever so slightly as she turned to the right, and then to the left, following her pupils like an old haunted painting that watched all passersby…
    My nose is fine I suppose; no obvious issues there…
    She ran her pointer finger down the bridge, pausing at the fleshy bulb. Some suggested she get a nose job, make it a bit keener, but she’d refused.
    My lips are big and juicy. Just how I like them.
    Her mouth twisted in a satisfied grin. She had the lips songs were written about, and she damn well knew it.
    My chin is well defined, as well as my jawline.
    She traced the thing, looking at the natural contrasts, contours and shadows around the area, studying it as if she would be asked to describe it on an exam.
    My neck is long. I like it, too.
    She’d never given much attention to her neck until someone else would bring it to her attention in a complimentary fashion. As far as she was concerned, it was only pivotal to swallow her drug of choice. All she gave a damn about as of late was what sat inside of it…her throat. Other than that, it didn’t even matter.
    My chest is…
    My chest is…
    My. Chest. Is.
    She couldn’t take it anymore. She placed her hands over the bare, scarred flesh and turned her back on herself, hung her head. She choked back the angry tears, refused to let them fall and shame her any further.
    My chest…is mine. That’s what it is. It’s just…mine.
    The heart of the matter was not the usual suspects and creepy culprits. No. It wasn’t that she no longer possessed breast tissue. It was gone—fine. Done and done. It wasn’t the cut flesh, either, and what it had left behind. It wasn’t that her womanliness could be now called into question and sometimes was. She’d already mourned the way she used to be able to fill out a curve hugging dress, slinking to her long form like a second skin. She’d only been a B cup, you couldn’t miss what you barely had, but regardless, they were hers, and if her memory served her correctly, they’d been perky and cute…but…she’d gotten past that, too. She’d already accepted the vicious cycle her tormented body had put her through. It made her sick. Literally.
    Thus, she lost important opportunities and occasions. Her breasts, those adorable pint-size sprightly things she was just lamenting over, proved no longer so fucking adorable anymore. They’d filled with disease like water in a balloon and made her a victim of chronic pain, misgivings, ridicule and self-persecution. Thus, she took medication to simply get through her day, manage it so she could think straight, tend to the tasks at hand. Uncertain of the date and time, but somewhere between the road of agony management and the delivery from a world she was becoming a stranger to, she became addicted to the medication.
    She’d fallen, became twisted and vacant, transformed into someone she no longer recognized. She’d do anything for relief—steal, lie and