I looked in the mirror. There was a story for every scar, every cut, every bruise. Together they made up the story of me, the places I'd been, the things I'd done, and the life I'd known. Sometimes I traced the story, my eyes roving the reflection in the glass.


Reflection. It was one of my favorite words. Double meaning. Both the same, really. The mirror reflected who I'd been; mentally, so did I. Same thing.


The glass showed me plenty of my story. Above my right eyebrow was the mark left by the shrapnel from Sarajevo. My left cheek told of the knife fight in New York. On my neck was proof of the fire in Moscow. The current bruise across my jaw reminded me of the brawl from just a few days ago, here in Kosovo.


Yet I was just as reflective of my mirror. Gazing at my own face, I tried to retrace my life, discover how on Earth I'd gotten here despite everything that had happened and how it had all happened in the first place. Revisiting the scars down my cheeks, I recalled my parents' murders. The numerous nicks and dents across my cheeks, nose, and forehead told of how I got by shortly thereafter. The bigger cuts, fewer and farther between, were evidence of what had happened as time had gone on.


Had it been necessary?


Would the girl I'd been at age eleven still be here if she hadn't changed?


No.


Had it been necessary? All the desperate violence, the crazed fights--the killings, the blood on my hands, the shattering of my innocence--had it been worth it?


Yes.


I turned away from the mirror. I'd had enough of my reflection for now. High time to hit the streets.