The bathroom mirror was foggy with steam.
Raising a hand, the boss rubbed a small circle in the centre, just big enough to encompass her face.
She hated it.
The chubby cheeks, the incessant little zits that never seemed to leave, the small mole above her left eye, all of it.
It made her sick.
Everyday she walked past the girls in Saints HQ, plastering a fake smile across her face so they couldn't see how desperately and savagely she wanted their angular faces, clear skin and slender bodies.
Again, another circle was rubbed out on the mirror, revealing her body.
It was always there. Under her clothes, laughing at her as she plastered on that fake smile.
Look at the body you don't have.
Look at it, you fat, useless bitch.
Then look in the mirror.
And she fucking hated it.
It felt like all she did was work and spend the rest of the day and night in the gym, trying to get away from a body that felt like a prison.
But it never worked.
And it never would.
Why the fuck do you bother?
It doesn't make any difference.
You'll never be like them.
The glass shattered around the boss's fist.
It showered down onto the counter top, the floor.
A small tear slipped down her cheek.