My finger traces over the glass, grimy from the years it went by without cleaning. Now, bloody, too, from my finger. What I see staring back at me is a dimly-lit hallway, complete with chandeliers hanging, wax dried below and dusty from years of disuse. A dark red carpet, the ends darkened and stains, barely visible from the blood that's been dripping on it. Plain walls, without adornment, only gray stone bricks and grime. The hallway continues as far as the eye can see, but I can see that it's 247 meters.

My father stares back at me from 247 meters, his usual grin down-turned and back starlight, almost arched backward. His skin is flushed red with his blush and his eyes are calm, almost closed.

I do not see the pale skin stretched over cheekbones, the smudged eyeliner from yesterday, the dark black hair loose over my shoulders, the fangs dripping, the long nails, red with blood, or the happiness shimmering in my eyes.

What I did not see in my father's portrait was the wrinkle always frowning on his forehead, the hairless head he grew accustomed to in the past 3 months, or the tumor growing from within his head.

A/N: Send me feedback! (Idk how to make the tag thing lol)