I look into the bathroom mirror and see the face of a sullen, unfamiliar woman looking back at me. My usual latte skin is now pale and sickly, my eyes are puffy and bloody shot, only made worse by the intense bruising that instead of bruising around the gash across my stitched-up forehead, has chosen to travel down and bruise all over my right eye. I don’t think there’s a cosmetic company around that makes this shade of purple. My lip is crusty, split and still a bit swollen along with the right side of my face. It’s strange though. It’s as though how I’m feeling on the inside is perfectly reflected on my face: beaten, bruised, split open and drained.
I leave the bathroom and patter to bed, slipping under the covers and returning to my ball of misery. I look at Ily as she dozes on the pil
