Ghosts in the mirror

“The day I died started like any other: boring. I woke up to the same monotone beeping of my 7:00am alarm. I brushed my teeth with the same minty toothpaste. I made my usual bitter coffee with too much creamer. I dressed in the same outfit I always wore on Wednesday. I listened to the same music, ate my typical banana and toast breakfast, and was out the door at 8:00am. Just. Like. Clockwork. So much so, that I hadn’t taken the time to really notice the shift in my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The way the mouth gaped open slightly more than my own did, or the fact that the fingers were a bit longer than the ones wrapped around my blue toothbrush. In fact, I had hardly looked in the mirror that morning. I wish I had. Maybe if I did, I would’ve noticed that something was looking back at me through the glass.

I didn’t notice my reflection was changing until I parked my car in the dim parking garage outside my office. Like always, I went to check I had nothing on my face in the little vanity mirror under the sun visor. It took me a moment, but I began to realize that my reflection’s eyes were narrowed, like I was looking at myself with hatred. No matter how wide I could feel myself opening my eyes, the ones in the mirrors image never shifted. I panned down to my mouth, and the lips were stretched in a smile much more menacing than I’d ever worn. I slammed the visor shut, and told myself I was imagining it. That I hadn’t slept well the night before. When I got out and locked my car door, I should’ve glanced at the window reflection, should’ve seen the monster that had begun to look back at me.

If something had changed, my coworkers didn’t seem to notice. They waved to me the same as always, said good morning and I said it back. My computer monitor noticed. As soon as I sat down at my desk, I saw my own warped reflection on the screen. Slightly more monstrous than before. My skin seemed to be stretched tight over my bones, emphasizing each and every peak and valley in the structure of my face. My eyes too narrowed, my smile still far too wide in the blurred version looking back at me. I just shook my head and turned on the screen, letting the LEDs wash away the anxiety over my changing appearance. I brushed it off again. Sleep deprivation, what a bitch, right?

My first bathroom break of the morning, taken at exactly 10:00am, as always, was when things changed. I remember immediately walking to the mirror, hoping to dispel the odd visions I seemed to be having. This time I couldn’t deny it, I was changing somehow. Or the mirrors were changing me. My long dark hair, that I knew was pulled back by a headband, was pulled in a tight ponytail in the mirror. My lips, painted pink with gloss, were greying. My skin was inexplicably paler, more sickly, even though I could see a warmer tone on my hands in front of me. I was more sinewy, and somehow, taller. She looked down on me, her lips stretched across her face in that same smile, each side seemingly reaching a cheekbone. I felt my heart kick up in horror, panic rushing through my body as I tried to explain away what my eyes knew they saw. I watched in horror as she raised a hand towards me, crooking a long boney finger, beckoning me closer. Every atom in my body screamed to stay where I was, not to move, not to touch the mirror. To just walk away and go find some help, because whatever was happening was inside my head. It had to be. How could I look like that? How could that be possible? Wouldn’t someone say something to me if I had changed that much overnight? I screamed no, the word scratching my throat on its way out of my mouth. Shutting my eyes, I turned away from the mirror, taking deep breathes, trying to slow the speeding beat of my heart.

When I opened my eyes, my reflection was standing in the bathroom in front of me. A scream lodged itself in my throat, and I swear I heard her snicker. She just crooked her finger at me again. I don’t think I even responded, just turned and ran out of the bathroom back to my desk. My hands were shaking, but I dug through my purse until my fingers wrapped around the cool metal of a pocket knife, a small comfort. Unlocking my phone, I went to the camera app and took a deep breath before flipping it to the front view. I think I just kept saying ‘Oh my god’ over and over as she stared at me from my phone screen. The whites of her eyes had now been taken over by a deep blood red, that same too big smile stretched across her face. I heard someone ask if I was okay, and when I turned around, she was suddenly there, asking if I was okay again. I didn’t even think, just swung the knife right into her neck. That’s when everyone around us started screaming. I felt such satisfaction, they saw the monster, they saw this warped version of myself that had somehow materialized. I pulled the knife out of her neck and looked at a coworker next to me, but that coworker suddenly became her. Those red eyes staring back at me, that crooked finger beckoning me. The panic rose again, and I ran at her, striking her in the chest.

Someone grabbed my waist, pulling me away. I shouted no, told them to stop. They didn’t understand, she had to die, this version of me had to die. She was evil, she was haunting me, making me believe I was insane. The police didn’t understand it either. When they showed up, they thought I was the evil one, not her. But it was her all along. I tried to get away, to show them her body, to prove that she was a monster, but they wouldn’t let me. They wouldn’t let me. Why wouldn’t they let me? I don’t understand. I’m boring, I’m not a criminal. I eat the same thing every day, I wake up at the same time, I do the same work, I use the same toothpaste. I can’t be a criminal, they’re evil, they’re not boring. I did the world a favor, I got rid of her. Why don’t they understand that?” My fingers yanked my hair, tangled up in the roots as I tugged, sobbing, trying to make sense of my memories.

“Why do you call this version of you evil? Why is she a monster?” The psychiatrist asks me, his voice calm.

“I could just sense it. I could sense the evil. She looked like a monster too. All ugly and menacing. How could she be anything else?” I say through my sobs.

“I don’t think that’s the reason. When we began, you said that you died that day, not that she died that day. You view her as a manifestation of yourself. Perhaps a personification of all the things you’ve done that you believe are evil or immoral.”

“No. No, no, no, no. She is not a fucking manifestation of my own self hatred, she was there. She had to be there.” I scream at him. To his credit, he doesn’t even flinch.

“Why does she have to be real?”

“Because if she wasn’t, then who did I kill that day?” I whimper, the fear I’ve had buried inside me coming back up to the surface.

“We’ve been over this. You killed two of your coworkers.” He states. The gentleness in his voice hardened slightly.

“I- I couldn’t do that, I mean, I mean I wouldn’t do that.” My eyes shift to the ground, outlining the marks on the floor. How could I kill anyone? I’m not a murderer.

“You had a psychotic break. It happens to people every day. We just need to try and figure out how to help you here and now.”

“Psychotic break?”

“Yes. This monstrous version of yourself was a figment of your imagination.”

“So she was never actually there?”

“Why would you think that?” My head snapped up to look at him, look at why his voice shifted to a high pitched taunt, but in the kind psychiatrist's place now sat her.

“Who are you?” I whisper, tears welling in my eyes as I stare into her slitted red ones.

“I’m you.” She giggles, her smile widening impossibly larger.

“No. You can’t be.”

“I am! I’m what you’ll become one day… one day… after years and yeeaaars in hell. All tangled up in the spirits of the worst of the worst. I’m what you end up as!” Her voice screeches out, the excitement in her words unmistakable.

“I don’t believe in hell.” I reply, making a weak attempt to mask my own terror.

“You will one day.”

“Are you real?” My voice shakes, but I need to know that this is all in my head. That my brain is trying to scare me or something.

“Why don’t you come find out?” She whispers back, raising her hand and crooking a finger. I hesitate, only for a moment, before slowly standing up and walking towards her. She giggles, the sound harsh in my ears. I reach my right hand out, and she mirrors me, reaching out her left hand. Our palms connect, and I shudder at the cold that rushes through my body before everything goes black.

I fly up, heart pounding in my chest as I look around my dark bedroom wildly. Everything's normal. I’m in my bed, in my bedroom, in my apartment. Not in a mental facility, not talking to some future demonic version of me, not a murderer. I laugh in disbelief, it was a dream. Of course it was a dream. A glance at the clock tells me it’s just before 7:00am. I get out of bed and head into the bathroom, my panic fading as I put my minty toothpaste on my blue toothbrush. I look at myself in the mirror, still laughing at myself as I brush my teeth. I brew my bitter coffee, and add too much creamer. I listen to the same music, get dressed in the same clothes I always wear on a Wednesday, and eat the same toast and banana I have each morning. I don’t let myself look in the mirror for too long, brushing the dream off as some sort of crisis of vanity. I wish I had though, because maybe I would’ve noticed how my reflections eyes were a little too red, and her skin a little too pale.