The Mirror

I hadn’t seen myself in a mirror in over 100 years.

There was a time before silver mirrors, when I was young, but when I became what I am now, they were silver. I was 32 years old. Still am, or appear to be. Being young and handsome irritated me once I was unable to see what I truly looked like in the aftermath. The others said my eyes were radiant like searing coals, and that I needed to hide them in order not to be discovered. I tried to get glimpses. In glass reflections. In still ponds or puddles. That may have been useful if it weren’t always at night. The goddamn night that I had grown sick of way too soon in this body. Others like me spent centuries before they cared to risk a peek of the sun again. They spent their nights living as if it were the day, finding shiftwork to blend in, or not even trying at all – just feasting as they wished. Part of me wanted to be like that. Wandering carelessly, taking what I wanted or needed at any time. I suppose I did, in ways. After all, I hadn’t procured my wealth by doing nothing. Having all the time in the world with no threat of death opened doors that were never open to me before I was turned. It wasn’t all bad. The darkness of night irritated me, but the lifestyle made up for it marvelously.

Another aspect of the life imposed on me was the lack of food variety. I’m sorry, but even when warm blood ran in my veins I always loved steak, but did I want it every night? How about every morning, noon, and night? Hardly. My current choices had become as mundane as living without sunlight or blue skies. Cloudy days were no comfort since I still couldn’t go outside, merely tolerate standing in a window if I was awake. Even that was better to avoid as doing so only stirred my longing to feel the heat of light on my skin again. And god, I wanted to eat a piece of cake without it turning to nothing in my mouth. Of course I’d try it. It wasn’t harmful. Sometimes I swore I could sense the sugar without tasting it. You know the feeling. The pleasant drift of sweetness without any flavor. Akin to a spoonful of sugar as a remedy, although nobody does that anymore. It didn’t taste like anything, but was still pleasant somehow. Eating something sweet gave me the idea of that. It was all I needed to convince myself that there was more to my taste preferences than blood.

I hated having those preferences. Others told me it was normal, that of course pigeon blood would taste different than a cow’s, and a cow’s different than a wolf’s. A wolf’s different than a human’s. That even between humans the taste varied, and I should try different kinds. Everyone had preferences. Some were more ravenous than others. There were others who called it hunger, but the glitter in their eyes said something else entirely. It was hunger, but not the kind that made the stomach growl. So there was me – searching for cake I could taste and feeling awful about the life of a rodent I had taken, and them – claiming to be starved yet only feeding on 20 year old college co-eds. It was an unwritten rule to not question each other’s preferences. Etiquette if you will. If that’s even possible between monsters. It didn’t take long for me to realize those good manners applied only if your preferences might get you called a monster in the first place. The others had no issues with mocking me and calling it good fun that I’d never killed a human for a meal. The first time I jabbed at one for snatching a jogger and leaving what was left of them somewhere never to be found though? It was the last time I made the mistake. In an ironic way I got it, even if it was excessive to nearly kill me for it. It wasn’t funny, it wasn’t jest, and I could never make it sound like good fun to call a murderer a murderer. I kept my thoughts about it to myself after that.

It was true that I had never killed anyone. The change itself from life to death to this was shockingly linear. The stories of old had the world convinced that it turned a person to a crazed maniac. In hindsight, I came to realize that the ones named in myth and legend were the ones with the hunger. Not ones like me. There were more of me than them, thankfully. If I were honest, even I had moments where I felt the urge. I had tasted blood, consensually, a few times. Afterward I wished I hadn’t. Not knowing is better for certain things. I found myself wanting it again at odd moments, triggered by the foulest things, and deeply grateful that it wasn’t desire that was impossible to resist. It made me wonder how the others could be so cavalier in their hunts, if they ever even tried to stop themselves.

As I was saying, by the time mirrors were silver-less, much had changed about the world. The town I lived in wasn’t my home. I had moved far from the city when those who knew me began to wonder about my appearance and change in habits. I lied about a career opportunity abroad. Frequent letters home with money inside kept their curiosity at bay until each of them died in time. It was better for me to be away from people and especially away from the others. Avoiding mirrors became second nature. It bothered me as much to see nothing reflected as it did seeing the look of a person nearby who noticed. Imagine my surprise when I saw motion from the corner of my eye in a public restroom. I spun, ready to swing, but nobody was there until I looked up. It was me.

I moved close to the mirror, touching it like I could feel my own flesh in my image. My hair hadn’t grown. My skin hadn’t wrinkled, although it was quite pale. I remember chuffing a laugh about that, thinking how I really did need to get a little sun. The most noticeable change to me, though, was in my eyes. There was no smoldering glow. No devil’s spark. They weren’t red or black or anything scary like I’d seen with the others’ before, or even brown anymore like before all this. My eyes were the color of storm clouds, dark gray, easy to miss at night. Neutral. I peered closer. The pupils didn’t move, also easy to miss. I stepped back. I looked… normal. Just a guy who was possibly anemic. I could live with that.

I left the bathroom, walking a little taller than intended, to my seat alone at that restaurant. I ordered a piece of every cake on the menu.