Angela hated mirrors. It was bad enough to be reminded of the accident every time she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. She wouldn’t waste time staring at the physical reminders. Everyone told her it would get better, but what did they know? They weren’t left incapable of walking, with scars on their bodies. Therapists sat behind desks, pens in hand, asking stupid questions as if it would somehow heal all her broken parts. Doctors poked and prodded. She’d shouted at them, but they’d insisted anger was a normal part of the grieving process. Grieving. As if. She was angry — with the driver who ran the red, the never-ending nightmares, and her broken body propped uselessly in this stupid chair. At least you’re alive. Screw them and their pithy platitudes. She hefted the plant and hurled it at the mirror. Dirt and glass rained down, mixing with her tears.