It began with a question. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest one of all?

And the answer, for once, was not her. It is Snow White, the mirror murmured, unapologetically blunt.

Shattered, she found the knife. The peeler. For apples. Gripping it tightly in her hand, she asked.

The answer, to her pain, stayed the same. Thus, with the peeler, she began to pull herself apart, intent to win her fickle mirror's heart. She would find the beauty inside if she could, for what she had outside no longer seemed to hold it's own.

With each long drag, she asked again and again. And every time, the mirror's reply remained unchanged. Thus it wasn't until there was no more voice asking that the mirror glanced away from his eternal musings, to find a stump of an arm with reddened nails banging on his glass.

She, who was down to no more than that, wrote a message in the red tears of her body. lla fo eno tseriaf eht s'ohw, llaw no rirrom, rirrom

And he, who saw no point to lie and did not know much of why he should or even if he could, gave her the only reply that he had.

Once she was gone, the mirror found himself wondering, perhaps for the very first time in his years of existing, when he'd become so uncaring of human suffering.

And he found himself hoping that one day, he would fall off his lofty perch. For the weight of his duties suddenly hurt.

Pray that Snow White never found him.