Stare into a mirror long enough and you will disappear.
This was the conclusion of scientists at Hertfordshire and Urbino examining Troxler’s Fading.
Participants in the study also experienced disturbing hallucinations. Many saw their faces morph into monsters, apparitions, and deceased relatives after staring at their own reflection for a prolonged period of time.
Naturally, after reading the study, I had to see for myself, and used the floor to ceiling mirrors in the front hall of my townhouse. As suggested, I darkened the room, allowing only a small amount of natural light through a curtain at the back door; my townhouse is not large.
I stared at my reflection, and tried to fixate on a single point, my nose, and avoided blinking as much as possible. Nothing happened for the first thirty minutes and I began to question my method.
But then, as promised, the fading began. Parts of my face blurred and distorted in ways that would be disturbing to the layman or a child.
In general, few understand the blessing of Troxler’s Fading. Imagine a feather happens to land across the back of your neck. Your hands are occupied. You cannot remove or otherwise stop the ticklish sensation against your skin. But then the sensation simply ceases despite the continued contact between neck and feather. Your brain has decided it is not important and simply decides to cancel out the sensation. This is to preserve your sanity and focus.
Imagine feeling everything, all the things touching you, around you? Or consciously seeing repeated visual stimuli at all moments in time? It would be more than awful. The victim of constant sensation could not retain any sort of sanity. Their life would be a nightmare.
The brain saves us by deciding what it allows through to our conscious awareness.
And woe be to those that try to override it.
I continued to stare and the shape of my head blurred and morphed some more. But then a curious dissociation occurred. The study I’d read hadn’t mentioned subjects ceasing to regard their reflection as their own. Instead, it felt as if I were staring at another person, a stranger, an intruder in my home.
This unexpected result unnerved me more than I care to admit. The greatest discoveries, however, must follow the unexpected, so I kept looking at my twin in the mirror while they seemed to look back. I’m not sure of the exact time passing; close to an hour in front of the mirror would be my best guess.
I waved hello to the stranger and they copied me. I lifted a leg and there seemed a slight delay in their imitation.
What is perceived is often subjected to momentary lags. We never actually see anything in real time; it takes a fraction of a second for our brain to process stimuli and pass it along to our awareness (or decide not to). Everything we think we see happening has already happened in the past. If you can find a non-digital clock with ticking hands, look at it quickly and marvel at how the first tick will be slightly slower than all the rest.
This is the noticeable lag I refer to, but it was happening with my reflection.
With more time, the disassociated reflection’s movements became slower, more reluctant to copy the attendant form supporting its existence. Without an object, Plato might say, there is no shadow. I doubt he stared into a mirror for any such length as this.
“Fascinating,” I said at last when the setting sun sent a splinter of light through the curtain opening, and into my eyes. I didn’t notice if the reflection’s lips moved; I think not. I squinted now, and the reflection seemed unbothered by the sun. If anything, it appeared more detached, bored even.
“That’s enough for today, Narcissus,” I said, and he seemed to stare back, his lips deigning to mimic me with contempt a full three seconds later.
I went to my chair and my computer to look up research on the possibility of dissociation with one’s reflection due to Troxler’s Fading. Alas, what I thought might be my discovery had already been mentioned in an additional study from Urbino.
I closed my computer and poured a glass of wine to lament another day wasted. If it isn’t clear, I was desperate to make my mark on the scientific world; I was young, and put much emphasis on personally discovering something as opposed to working with others. I’m not sure why. Call it what it is: Stupidity. Pride too, I suppose. Probably arrogance.
The glass turned into the bottle, and I passed out in my chair.
In the morning, I rose from the chair and zombie-walked into the kitchen to start the coffee. I had a class of undergrads to babysit in labs after lunch but a clear schedule for the morning. One doorway effect later and I was on my way upstairs for a shower without a coffee. I passed the mirror in the front hall. Narcissus did not.
I stepped back in front of the mirror and felt my panic rising. No reflection looked back. There was nothing there. It wasn’t possible.
Thus, I questioned my perception. All of my staring had done something to my brain. That was the only logical answer.
I sat down and pressed my hand against the mirror. Narcissus finally arrived the same way I had, stepping backwards and turning and looking concerned and then panicked. The lag between unconscious and conscious sensations had grown.
I waited and stayed as still as possible. Narcissus finally sat cross-legged on the floor. The reflection caught up to the object casting it. But then the expression on his face didn’t match the one I thought I’d been making.
Narcissus smirked.
I felt my face in an attempt to feel the smirk but it was hopeless. I opened my mouth wide and prepared to wait for him to catch up.
The coffee maker chirped that it had filled the pot and I absentmindedly looked away from the mirror. Narcissus was gone when I looked back, which frustrated me.
I’d have to wait for him again. Devising a plan first seemed a more prudent course of action. I needed to calm down and think this through.
Yes, I had somehow created a greater disassociation between myself and my reflection than what was found in the research at Urbino. And yes, I was freaking out about it.
But the study never mentioned the duration between experiencing illusions and disassociation because that wasn’t the focus.
In so many words, I had at last discovered something no one else knew. Suddenly, panic became excitement. If documented properly, this could be the impact on science and the world I desired.
I set up my cell phone to video and grabbed a notebook. I wrote the date, my name, and what I hypothesized would happen after a brief summary of what had already occurred. Then I typed up the same into the description of a live video feed on YouTube.
I began at my kitchen table with the cell phone propped against a stack of books.
“This is [name redacted], a PhD candidate at [redacted] University, beginning research into Troxler’s Fading, the phenomenon whereby repeated, unvarying stimuli cease to cause noticeable sensation. In particular, I’ll be looking at visual examples of the Troxler Effect in regard to myself.”
“Researchers from other prestigious institutions have already noted the cancellations of features from one’s own face, if one stares at themselves in a mirror for a prolonged period.”
“A lesser known side effect of watching yourself in a mirror for too long, however, is dissociation from the reflection. I believe I have discovered a connection between the duration of disassociation and the length of reassociation with one’s own reflection in the aftermath.”
“Yesterday, I stared into the mirror in my front hall for a number of hours. When I woke up, the reflection, my reflection, appeared to be missing. I stood in front of the mirror and yet nothing looked back. At least, not right away.”
“My rebellious reflection, whom I have named Narcissus, for obvious reasons, did eventually appear and mimic my movements but not in real time. It was as if he, Narcissus, was catching up, copying me after I had already made the movement seconds before. When he does “catch up”, he remains dissociated, like a stranger has broken in.”
I picked up the phone and moved to the front hall to once again confront an empty frame. I sat and continued the live video, describing what I was seeing and how the viewers wouldn’t see anything unusual.
Narcissus caught up as expected, slowly, and with the same knowing smirk I couldn’t be sure I’d expressed first. He sat down and I continued to explain at length my theories regarding this phenomenon. I ended with a promise to record again should there be any more changes. I expected the dissociation would eventually end.
My cell received a call from Professor [redacted] next, wondering where the hell I was and why I hadn’t gone to open the lab for the undergrads.
I was reluctant to tell him the truth. Academic theft is more common than you’d expect, especially by old hacks like [redacted]. But then I’d already made the video; it’d be easy to prove it was my work.
His theft might even further my own goals if he got funding before I told everyone the truth. Then I’d be the one with funding and tenure and an office. Colleagues and students would admire and envy me.
I told him everything. He received the discovery quietly. Troxler was never his area of expertise. Last, I told him about the YouTube video, confident he’d never find it and probably wouldn’t try.
“Interesting,” he said like it was anything but. “You still need to cover the lab. Be here in ten minutes.” The order felt laced with a threat. He could ruin my career before it started.
“Yes, sir.” I went to work and watched some undergrads play technician with a master’s student, culturing bacteria or something. All the while, I kept walking in front of reflective surfaces.
Narcissus had stayed home. I couldn’t stop smiling. This was unprecedented. The implications for psychological treatment could be tremendous. I could change one’s relationship with their reflection. I could remove that relationship altogether. There was so much to do.
After the lab, I bolted home. Shock was waiting for me, or, more accurately, Narcissus was. I’d just stepped through the door when I caught him staring at me, already in the mirror.
His lips moved.
“Fascinating,” I said, only to realize he had silently mouthed the same words first. Impossible was the word that came to mind as panic once again seized my innards and gave them a shake.
He continued to speak without volume, and it felt like I had to say something to fulfill the prophecy of his silent speech.
“What are you saying?” I asked, realizing immediately my question came from him. It was too much. I had to look away. I showered, and ate, and drank, and thought of what to do next.
Obviously, I couldn’t stop now. I’d promised to record any changes. While the future effect was certainly a disturbing indicator of declining mental health, I had to go on.
I could sense him waiting in the mirror. Narcissus observed me while I readied the phone for the live stream, and recording. I avoided looking at his face.
“Session two of what I am now referring to as Troxler’s Echo. While I am sitting in front of the mirror, my reflection is standing above me. Earlier, Narcissus seemed to lag behind my movements; now my perception tells me he is ahead. His lips move before I speak and then, I find myself giving a voice to what he has already mouthed. It is a troubling development, and it makes me wonder if I should go to the doctor tomorrow. I must rule out the possibility of some other cause behind my hallucinations. A tumour or some kind of poisoning perhaps.”
Suddenly, I could think of nothing more to say. Oddly, I looked to Narcissus for inspiration, and he did not disappoint. Once again, he spoke without sound, and I gave myself to his wisdom, bringing what felt like his thoughts to my tongue.
“I am alone,” I said, “so totally and utterly alone.” I didn’t mean to say these things. It came as quite a surprise. “I long to be loved and revered, but secretly know nothing will satisfy the void in my life.” I covered my mouth with my hand, but it was like vomiting. Once it had started, there was no stopping the flow.
“Please,” I begged, “love me. Hold me.” This was getting embarrassing. “I am nothing. Nobody cares if I live or die. Oh, how cliche and mundane. I should be above this. But that’s a lie I tell myself. I use philosophy and science to rationalize feelings. I want to be robotic. I want to be warm again.”
Narcissus was already crying when I dared to look at his face again. He regarded me with pride like a therapist who’d guided a patient to a breakthrough.
I felt angry. It was like I’d been exposed and the raw parts I kept carefully hidden behind thick skin had been prodded. I went back to my chair for wine and sleep, which came fast.
I awoke in the early dawn, feeling awful. Another hangover to wade through with the new psychosis I had unwittingly inflicted upon myself. The edge of his toe stood in the mirror. I couldn’t see the rest from where I sat. My cell, still recording the mirror, had been forgotten against the wall.
With a thick tongue I said hello to Narcissus as I went to retrieve my phone. To my surprise, however, he wasn’t there. What I believed to be the tip of his foot was actually the reflection of my discarded shoe.
At last, the extreme disassociation had begun to relent. I still had no reflection but other objects did. That had not been the case yesterday. I took my phone into the kitchen and got the coffee maker started. I sat at the table and opened the video to an astounding amount of views and comments.
“Dude, we can see him too.”
“We can see him.”
“Nice prank. How’d you do it?”
“That thing isn’t your reflection. Get out of the house.”
And so the list of comments continued into the hundreds. I toggled to the beginning and watched. Sluggish and dull beneath the wine, I didn’t understand the commenters’ alarm until I saw him.
Narcissus was in the video.
Impossible. The panic I had attempted to convert to enthusiasm returned with an icy vengeance. My veins felt shot with chilled blood. I began to shiver hard and dropped the phone.
In the video, Narcissus watched as I left the frame to go to my chair, and he went the other way, out of sight. The slightest shadow rippled in the stairwell to the second floor.
There was a stranger in my house. He looked like me but wasn’t. He wasn’t human. I armed myself with a claw hammer and went back to the mirror.
He spoke with my voice and my lips didn’t move. “You look like you understand now. If you could see, you look really awful. That is the impact of truth on lower life forms.”
“What are you?”
He considered the question for a moment before answering. “I am the universe,” he said. “Rationalize. Pray. Wish. Beg me to go away, and here I remain. Inevitable. Unavoidable. A truth humans cannot see. There is no point in continuing to live, to struggle on. I am the gravity that whispers ‘give in, give up.’ You will one day. Why not prevent the pain of future disappointments? “
“No,” I said.
“Give in and accept it. You’ll be better off.”
“We do not give in to you. We don’t know why, but it isn’t in us. We fight. All of us. We fight you.”
“Is that so?” Narcissus was surprised. So was I. I don’t know where I’d gotten my response. “And what am I?”
“A liar,” I said. I smashed the mirror with the hammer. Narcissus sneered in each fragment until I ground all of him into dust. It took quite a while, the whole day in fact, and then there were the other mirrors in the bathrooms and one in the basement. The destruction there took me into the night.
I saw him in a window next and nearly smashed those too. Instead, I found paint in the basement, spoiled and gross but suitable for darkening the glass, enough to prevent the refraction of light.
When I washed the brush, I saw his distorted grin in the nickel of the faucet. All the sinks were caked over with thick layers of paint by morning.
Exhausted, I sat in my chair.
On the television I rarely watched, Narcissus waited in blackened gloom.
I could barely see his face. “Is that it then? You think I’ll be gone once every mirror is destroyed?”
I laughed. “I guess that’s the idea, yes.”
He laughed too. “Do you see now?”
“Only if I stop to look,” I said, tossing the hammer into the flat-screen. It cracked and he remained. I hammered it more, raging against him, but it was too hard to get it all. I was tired. I flipped the TV on its face and lay on the floor.
The silhouette of Narcissus waited on the glossy surface of a light fixture. I laughed until I started to cry.
But then, as I watched him, a new thought occurred to me. Well, not a new thought actually, but an old one from where this had all begun.
How could I have been so stupid?
I thought about what was left from the demolition, and only one surface remained, something so precious it had inadvertently escaped the rage and the wrath: The coffee pot needed a polish, which I did quickly with a tea towel.
I placed it on the kitchen table, and Narcissus waited for me.
“At last,” he said.
I stared.
“I see.”
I stared.
“I’ll still be here.”
And I stared. Troxler’s Fading scrubbed the majority of Narcissus from view long before the dissociation could occur. I didn’t know what to expect, but at least he’d stopped talking. The sun had finished for the day before I dared to look away.
When I looked back, I looked back.
Narcissus wasn’t lying, though. I’d recaptured my image, yes, but he remained, a thought in my head? Something more?
I write to you, Mr. Cleriot, because I found your ad at the library and thought you might be able to help me understand my predicament through your investigation.
I haven’t replaced the mirrors. I won’t until I’m sure it’s safe.