As I passed the mirror I glimpsed my reflection.  I bit my lip hard and looked away, but I had it memorized already.

Hair, dyed brown and cut off above my shoulders.  Shirt, teal-and-black-plaid button-down.  I didn’t look like I used to, now.  Much as I fought and resisted and cried, I was slowly becoming Her.  

My own reflection was torture, my own voice a sound from the painful past.  Why, out of all the people I could have become, did it have to be Her?

The one who coddled me, and then threw me out like so much garbage.

--

I remember asking a friend for a prompt and how the entire group of drabblers groaned when he gave us a color.  We hate color prompts.

You'll notice that the color is actually totally irrelevant to this drabble.  I could have picked any color.  In fact, when I envision this happening, the shirt in question is actually pink.

But I like the emotion in it.  Frustrated, ashamed, but at some level okay or even proud of what she is.