Broken Mirror

The mirror showed a reflection that was not my own. As I stare into the glass, my right-hand strokes at my own jawline. My very hand does not even look like mine in the mirror. The hand in the mirror is a faint, blue grey, just like the face peering back at me. That hand appears to be frail, the skin sagging in places upon it. The nails on that hand are ragged, dirty, and unkempt. My own hands, the ones outside of the mirror, appear strong, smooth, and full of life. The backs of my hands are olive in color, the palms are a faint pink, soft and supple. My recently manicured nails are painted a soft, natural, peach tone, although not quite as shiny, as the day before. Odd, the gel polish is beginning to chip, as they were just done two days ago.

The hair in the mirror was at one time a vibrant auburn, thick, full of body. Now it is a muddy brown, limp, missing in patches. I instinctively reach up, running my fingers through my own hair; bouncy, loose curls, just grazing my shoulders. As I pull away my own hand, the one not in the mirror, I see some of my own hair falling to the bathroom floor. The reflection in the mirror tilts her head ever so slightly, arching an eyebrow my way.

Her lips are split, dry, unable to form a pleasant smile. Almost as if it would cause her pain to smile, her mouth has been so disfigured. Her lips are slightly trembling. I tilt my own head to one side, ready to give her a sympathetic smile. But as I try to turn the corners of my own mouth up, I feel a stab of pain. I gasp at the unexpected surge of discomfort, my eyes widen, and my hand goes instinctively to my own mouth – the mouth that is not in the mirror. My fingers lightly trace over my lips, and I can feel cracks in them, my own lips dry enough that one could easily peel off the first layer of the membrane.

The eyes gazing back at me are glazed over, just a flicker of life left within them. I can sense a range of emotions emanating from those eyes. Sadness, anger, jealousy, the feeling of loss. And all of those emotions are directed towards me. I wonder if she realizes that all of those emotions are misdirected. After years of abuse, belittling, and torture, she has turned her feelings of hate upon the wrong person.

My own eyes, the ones outside of the mirror, still have life within them. Although I notice that they do not shine as brightly as they had just yesterday. I shake my head absentmindedly, telling myself that it is probably just the lighting. I can see the lack luster eyes staring back at me from within the mirror, almost acknowledging that my own eyes are less spirited.

I inhale deeply, allowing a gentle sigh to escape as I exhale, ready to turn away from the mirror, to turn my back on the figure in the mirror. I barely make my way out of the bathroom when I hear the faintest whisper “Don’t go”. I halt in mid step, my left foot dangling just off of the floor, my knee bent, ever so slightly. I am unable to move forward. It feels as if someone has hit the pause button on a remote control, aimed directly at me.

“Damnit!! Let me go!”

The ghastly image in the mirror ignores my demand. Instead, I am being pulled back towards the bathroom, back to that mirror. As I try to let out a scream, my mouth will not open. It feels like someone has rubbed superglue all over my lips. When I am standing directly in front of the mirror, my hands are forcibly shoved on to either side of the porcelain sink. I cannot budge them. As my hands are gripping the side of the sink, I can feel how smooth the material is, how cool it feels on the palms of my sweating hands.

I can sense something seizing my chin, forcing me to look into the mirror. That face is hideous. There is a snarl upon her face, the anger within has been provoked. I start to twist and turn side to side, trying to free myself from the sink, from her grasp. She wants my attention, that gruesome face in the mirror, and by her own hand, she has it. Her ghostly hands seem to slip through the mirror, heading straight for me. As those sickly hands and arms continue to come through, they become more solid looking. With no warning, she grabs each side of my head with her swamp like palms, gripping tightly. She jerks my head forward, sending my skull crashing into the oval mirror. The glass cracks but does not break into pieces. Unsatisfied, she wrenches my head forward again, slamming my throbbing head into the same spot. This time, the glass shatters, sending shards and splintered pieces throughout the bathroom.

The face in the mirror nearly comes out. She is staring directly into my eyes, still holding my head, blood now dripping down into the once clean porcelain sink. I think to myself, Damn, I just cleaned the house. Her contorted mouth is trying to speak to me, but no words will come out. But I already know what she wants. My heart sinks to my stomach and tears begin to flow from my own eyes, the ones outside of the mirror. I try to shake my head NO, and in response, she shakes her head a firm YES. It was only a matter of time before this moment came to life.

Her anger and fury have been growing for years. And all I have done is ignored it, denied it, lied about it. For years I have plastered a smile upon my own face, the one outside of the mirror, in an effort to conceal all of the hurt and suffering. I have carried on as if nothing is wrong. And now she wants her revenge. She will act out her punishment upon me because I refuse to tell the truth.

While still gripping my face between her wretched hands, my right hand has been set free. I no longer have control over my own being, my own actions. I feel my fingers sifting through the glass laying in the sink. The edges are sharp and jagged, and I can feel the lacerations on my palm and fingers. I start to cry harder, pleading with her, with my eyes. There is no compassion in her eyes, only darkness. My right hand tightly grasps a large fragment of broken glass. The piece is cutting into my palm as I raise it up to my own face, the one that has been on the outside of the mirror. Before I know what is happening, I am slicing at my own face, ripping at the corners of my own mouth. Blood begins to flow angrily from the gashes I am carving into my own flesh. I cannot scream but the searing pain is making me nauseous.

I can see the disfigurement I am causing to myself in the broken glass still hanging on the wall. She is not satisfied with my mangled face. She demands more. My eyes are blurred with tears, sweat, and blood. With the same fragment, my right hand has been redirected to my own throat. I cry harder still, knowing exactly what she wants of me. As my hand begins to slice at my own throat, the one outside of the mirror, I realize that the lies and the deceit will literally follow me to my grave. I take one last glance at the mutilated face looking back at me. I can feel my own life draining from me, as the blood is pouring into the sink and on to the floor.

Finally, my left hand is now free, the glass in my right-hand falls to the floor, shattering into smaller pieces. I can feel my body going limp, my own legs not able to keep me upright anymore. As my eyes flutter shut, the mirror showed a reflection that was no longer my own.