I AM NOT ME

I should be dead.

Every night, I wish I was.

But instead, I am here.

Trapped. Screaming. Buried in the reflection of a man that isn't me.

And worse—it enjoys my life.

It sleeps in my bed. It wears my face. It kisses the woman I love.

But it’s not me. It will never be me.

No one notices. No one ever does.

---

It started three weeks ago.

I was brushing my teeth when my reflection stopped.

Not a lag. Not a trick of the light.

It just… froze.

My stomach clenched. My pulse hammered in my ears. I waved my hand. It didn’t move.

Then, it blinked.

Slow. Deliberate.

A wide, too-wide grin peeled across its face. And then—it stepped away.

Not me. It.

It walked backwards, deeper into the mirror.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t look away.

The bathroom behind it wasn’t mine anymore.

The walls were wrong. The shadows were moving. The sink was black with something thick and clotted, pulsing like an open wound.

Then, it reached for me.

---

I don’t remember how it pulled me in.

Only the pain.

My skull cracked against the glass—except the glass gave way. Like flesh. Like skin splitting open.

Something wet clawed its way into my mouth, into my throat, into my lungs.

I couldn’t scream. I could only choke.

Then, suddenly, I was the one inside the mirror.

And it was outside.

It turned, stretched in my skin, flexing my hands.

It looked at me and smiled.

Then it lifted its fingers to its lips.

And it began to peel.

---

I clawed at the mirror, throat raw, my fingers bleeding against the cold, smooth surface.

It peeled my face off in slow, deliberate strips.

Not in pain. In pleasure.

It pulled the skin from my arms, revealing writhing black tendrils beneath. It ran its nails down its stomach, tearing open my flesh—inside, there was only rotting, shifting hunger.

It was never wearing me.

It was becoming me.

Then, it turned and walked away.

Into my life.

---

Days passed. Maybe weeks.

Time doesn't work in the mirror.

I watched it live. I watched it laugh. I watched it touch the people I love.

I screamed every time it put its hands on them.

But the mirror is thick.

My voice doesn’t reach them.

And sometimes, just sometimes, it turns to face me—staring at its own reflection with my hollow, stolen eyes.

And it smiles.

---

Tonight, it stood in front of the mirror for the first time in days.

It pressed my hands against the glass.

And in a voice that wasn't mine anymore, it whispered:

"I don’t need you anymore."

I felt the mirror shrinking.

The edges of my prison closing in, the glass growing darker.

Something moves in the shadows behind me.

I hear them.

Whispering. Laughing. Hungry.

I turn, but there’s nothing to turn to.

Only a vast, endless void, filled with shuffling bodies and wet, open mouths.

I look back at the mirror, desperate, but it’s too late.

It’s gone.

The thing wearing my face has turned off the light.

And now, I am alone in the dark.