To Her Own Reflection, She Said

The storm was letting up but continued to throw rain upon the world. The rain was black and it stung, having fallen through a blanket of burnt oil folded around the sky. Emma knew her life was over now but it made it no easier to say goodbye. In a flash of maddening courage she slit her wrist.
There, it was done, far quicker than she ever thought it could be. She quivered and a tingling sensation rushed through her body, as if it had forgotten it was alive and now that its death was imminent, suddenly remembered all the things it was supposed to do.
Her wrist began to sting. She ignored it and looked at the television. A young woman in a horrible yellow jacket and purple t-shirt combination read the news. Beside her a small box showed a photo of a burning oil rig, black smoke rising from it like a plague.
Emma had almost forgotten what she'd done until she felt something warm and wet against her leg. She looked down to see her lap covered in blood. She took a deep breath and looked back at the television.
Tears were now forming in the corners of her eyes. Try as she may to keep them inside, they were aware of her pain and were coming alive. Agonisingly one crept from her eye and slid down her cheek. She wiped it away immediately.
Another tear snuck behind it and she didn't notice as her eyes steadily grew thinner, sharper and more reflective of the room around her. Water filled them now and tears steadily began to scroll down her cheeks.
She took a deep breath and finally broke. A cry escaped her mouth and she did her best to wave it away. She coughed and grimaced and gritted her teeth. That first sting she had felt, it was just a preview, because now her wrist was on fire, now her nerves had been exposed to the air too long and were dying.
She slumped backward and rested on the bed.
She closed her eyes as the nagging urge to itch her wrist crept upon her. She stared at the ceiling and it was as if she'd never seen it before.
Spreading across the white tiles were dozens of glow in the dark stars, a gift for her seventh birthday. It made her feel small and insignificant, and that made the urge to itch go away and the imminence of death more bearable.
Creak.
She looked at her bedroom door and in the small slit of space beneath it, could see the shadows of feet moving too and fro in the hallway. Then she heard the sound of running water, tumbling into the bath.
That must be her mum. Her dad and brother were probably in the living room playing monopoly. Emma promised to join in, they were probably expecting her.
Her mum began singing as she busied around in the hallway. She was tone deft. Tonight was her night out with the girls from work. She worked at a bank, had done for almost a year.
Knock, knock. Emma looked at her bedroom door just as her mother's voice crept through it. 'Emma? Do you need the toilet before I have my bath?'
Emma swallowed with difficulty and spoke as sure and steady as she could.
'No.'
'Okay.'
The shadows under the door turned away. Moments later the bathroom door closed and there was silence.
Emma was pale now, deathly white and clammy. The tingling and itching and burning and stinging had ebbed away. Now all she felt was numb.
She managed to push herself up to look at the television. The woman in the horrible yellow jacket and purple t-shirt combination was still talking. Beside her now was a small box with a photo of a smiling man.
Emma used the remote to switch off the television and was confronted by her own reflection on the dark and dusty screen. It took her by surprise to see herself. She'd almost forgotten she still had form.
She smiled meekly as tears ran down her cheeks and her nose ran down her mouth. To her own reflection, she said, 'Miss you.'
She smiled sadly and closed her eyes. She thought about how much she'll miss herself, and how that made her sad, and how she was pleased to be leaving.
And then she left.