There’s a person living in my mirror. I know what you’re thinking, something along the lines of: she’s crazy! But it’s true. The first time I noticed it, was when I was staring at my reflection and felt something was off. It was hard to pinpoint, but I could just sense it. Something inherently wrong and despite my reflection looking normal, I knew it was anything but that. I doubt I could fully capture or describe the feeling in its entirety, the only way I truly can explain it as akin to a smile with too many teeth. Strange in such an inherent, primal, sense.
The reflection staring back at me was not ‘me’.
The other me mimicked myself quite well, impressively so. It’s hair was blonde, just like mine, and brown at the roots. The slightest hint that my hair was dyed, the attention to detail was impeccable. Its skin was pale, a little too pale— as if just like me, it had never been outside enough to tan. The paleness was a little too white, the skin milky and ropes of blue veins were running down its arms, visible under the pale translucent skin. They mimic something akin thick ropes of lightning, exploding across the sky, only the ‘sky’ in this sense was skin. The outfit my reflection wears varies with each day, but on that specific day it wore the exact same one I wore— down to every detail: the slight crease in my top, how the bagginess of it blanketed my stomach, and the cargo pants I wore. If I didn’t know any better, I would assume the person staring back at it was me.
But it wasn’t.
The eyes gave it away, god, those soulless eyes. You ever wonder how it would feel, to see the eyes to the soul be so utterly empty? And for it to look exactly like you, nonetheless? That’s what I felt. It struck me to my core, totally unnerving me in a way I could not begin to fathom. The eyes that stated back at me were empty, they lacked the shine and the sparkle ‘living’ provides. When I stared at those eyes, and they stared back at me, lifeless, I knew right then it was an imposter. Someone, in the mirror, pretending to be me.
I remember I had gulped, had felt the spit travel so slowly down my throat and nearly gagged, but I was paralysed. I could not move. My heart felt like an animal trying to claw out my chest. The feeling of fear paralysed me, stuck to my spot, I could not move to even tremble. I watched my reflection with a mixture of fear and awe bubbling inside of me, filling me up with its concoction. Blood rushed in my ears loudly, and I feared that the reflection of me would move, perhaps smile before reaching outwards, crawling out of the mirror, and forcing me to take its place. A horror movie cliche, but a terrifying idea nonetheless. Only, it didn’t. Not than. Perhaps that’s what makes it even more terrifying, the fact it did nothing out of the ordinary. It stayed still, lifeless eyes wide open, biting its lip hard enough to draw blood, all in a sense of paralysis. The emotions of fear it portrayed on its face was near perfect, but again, inherently off.
Stuck in place, I stared for what felt like hours, unable to move nor scream. It was only when the dark night sky swallowed up any light, blanketing the room and my mirror. When my reflection disappeared under the security of night, I finally felt I could breathe. An invisible weight lifted off my chest, opening my lungs up to access air. With that, I seemed to finally remember how to move. My steps were fast and clumsy as I ran out of the room, away from the mirror. My chest heaved from exertion, breathe coming in too short as if I couldn’t remember how to breathe.
The person in my mirror, is not me but rather an imposter, copying my image.
The next time I saw ‘it’ was exactly the next day. I had planned to bin the mirror, get it as far away from me as possible, but I couldn’t. I felt connected to it, and to be honest, It was all I could think about. You know when you purposefully try not to think about something, yet end up only thinking about that one specific thing even more? That’s what I experienced. Like a starved man to food, it lay heavy in my mind and in a way I needed it, to see it once more.
When I stared at my reflection, it felt even more foreign. Dark bags hung under lifeless eyes, star, against the pale skin. The skin was so incredibly white, as if dead, void of any nutrients or colour. It’s hair was still blonde, just like mine, yet the roots were darker and the hair slightly unkempt. Before I had time to fully process the reflection, I had turned on my heels and dashed to a toilet and as I spew the contents of my stomach into the toilet, the image of its eyes was all I could see. How dead they looked. It was terrifying, to stare at death and have it stare back.
After that, I had truly planned to destroy the mirror. However I still couldn’t bring myself to do it. It felt like an obsession at this point. Like I needed the mirror, in a sense I could not explain nor wished to understand.
The next time I stared at the mirror, the reflection was even more terrifying. The bags were darker, more black, like bruises, marring the skin under the eyes. It’s blonde hair was now matted and filled with knots, and I could only assume I was looking at what my appearance would be if I were homeless, or something like that. The skin, if possible, was even more pale. Ghostly white. By now it’s lips were red, not from lipstick, but rather blood. The result of being bitten and chewed, it made me physically cringe to look at. I could almost feel the phantom pain tingling on my own lips. I stayed staring for what felt like hours, willingly this time, scrutinising it. But I came up with nothing, as it perfectly mimicked my every movement. The sense of strangeness never really left me, only dulled, but now it reared it’s ugly head. It was all I could feel, as it utterly consumed me. It was only when night fell, once again, that I had escaped that room and committed myself to sleep, all with the resolution of destroying that mirror.
I woke up irritated. That night I had fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. Only, I woke up continuously through the night in cold sweat. I couldn’t think any thought of my own nor sleep, my mind was totally captivated by the mirror. I needed to see it, to look at my reflection once more and see how it changed. It inhabited my mind like a parasite, destroying any other thought of mine.
It was early morning when I finally, for the last time, went to look at the mirror. This time I did not bother with getting changed, instead opting for just a bra and pajama bottoms. They felt strangely looser on me, but I pushed that observation to the back of my mind. Each step I took up the stairs felt like a century, like time had slowed. When I finally got to the room, where the mirror lived, I was out of breathe. A part of me wanted to stop then and catch my breathe, but I ignored it. I needed to see the reflection, how it changed.
My reflection was horrifying. The dark bags that hung under my eyes now were so dark it was like I was staring at a void, streaked across skin. The skin was terrifyingly pale, as if I could see not only the veins underneath it but also the insides, from its beating heart to its intestines. Bones jutted out harshly, as if threatening to rip the skin, making it look severely malnourished. I took a step forward, and so did my reflection. It’s hip bones also jutted out, the sight sickly enough that I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. It’s pajamas bottoms hung so loose on its hips. I took another step forward, and another, until me and the reflection stood directly infront of each other. The mirror was nothing more than a gateway now, as I watched my breathe hit the surface of it. My reflection looked even worse up close. Without thinking, I lifted my hand upwards and placed it against the surface of the mirror. My reflection did the same, and for a brief moment, I felt a spark of electricity cross from the mirror to me. As if I had made contact with something off bounds.
I waited for the reflections empty gaze to turn sinister, for it to intertwine its fingers with mine and pull me into the mirror.
It didn’t.
I waited, until my legs felt weak, yet it never pulled me in. Anger washed over me, why didn’t the mirror want to acknowledge my presence? Why was it not quitting the act? Why was it not reaching out to me, admitting something was off, and not caring in doing so?
My hand felt stuck where it lie plastered against the mirror, and I stared for what felt like hours.
As I waited, I allowed myself to think. I couldn’t count the days this mirror had stolen from me, the hours I had spent thinking about it, my reflection. So much time had been robbed from me, het was it really stealing if I allowed it to?
There’s a person living in my mirror, my reflection, yet I’m not sure who’s the one really living anymore.