The curse of the eclair

I was shaking as I stood in my white dress stained with blood, looking in the oval mirror decorated with gold, my second favorite color after black, trying to inhale as much air as I might be able to breathe, while my feet tried to remain steady on the bathroom floor, as cold as my body is now. The wound on my right arm filled the place with the smell of death, in contrast to the red paint on my fingernails that radiates life on a dead body...