By Hannah Begg.
The teaspoon clinked gently against the side of the cup. Closing her
eyes, she breathed deeply as the sweet steam rose and brushed against her face.
The toaster popped; reaching for the crispy slice of sourdough, she let her
fingers pause on the rough, hot texture, waiting for her skin to start
tingling; quickly dropping the toast onto a plate, she slowly dragged a knife
across it, watching the thick, golden honey glisten in the morning sun.
Lifting the mug to her lips, her gaze fell upon the shiny surface of
the kettle. Momentarily, her own reflection looked back. Gasping in shock, she
spun round, heart racing, coffee sloshing out of the mug.
It’s okay. Relax. You
didn’t see anything. The surface was steamy, it was clouded, the reflection
wasn’t accurate.
She waited a few moments, breathing slowly, eyes closed. Reaching
for some paper towel, she watched as it soaked up the spilt coffee - rough
white morphed into damp, creamy brown. Carrying the coffee into the next room,
she curled up at one end of the couch, resting the coffee on her lap, and
picked up the small, blue folder. Sighing, she began leafing through the
newspaper clippings and doctor’s notes again. Each one was becoming more
familiar now. She no longer felt dizzy, or nauseous, as she read them. Pausing
when she reached the section at the back with the photographs, she gently
touched each one, letting her fingertips rest on the sharp colours, the jagged
images...
The only thing I really
remember is the pain. White-hot, searing razorblades, sinking claws into my
flesh, scratching my eyes, tearing my throat. And I remember a high-pitched,
all-consuming noise, shrieking in my mind, making my ears throb. I found out
later that it was my own voice, screaming and screaming.
Taking a sip of coffee, her gaze fell upon the object leaning
against the opposite wall. With a thin, pink bed sheet carefully draped across
its smooth surface, it showed only a faint, ghostly reflection of the room.
Quickly looking away, she continued to browse the medical reports. Apparently
this was part of the recovery process - accepting what had happened, according
to the psychologist. But it just felt so surreal, so separate from her life.
The photos showed a raw, un-human creature lying amongst a twisted mess of
hospital tubes and bandages, unconscious. How could she connect herself with
that?
I’m still me. I haven’t
changed, my perception of the world hasn’t changed. The sun still sets each
afternoon, the sky becomes deep, dark, golden; the television still rattles
each night with tinny laughter and applause.
My opinions and thoughts remain exactly the same - my mind isn’t
damaged...
_____________
The fire had started very suddenly, according to the police reports.
The flames had instantly leapt onto her shirt. Her brother had managed to
extinguish the flames within moments, but apparently the damage was done. She
still didn’t know exactly how much damage was done, though - she hadn’t looked
in a mirror. In the hospital, the nurses’ expressions told her nothing. The
other patients looked away as she moved along corridors. Her own father’s eyes
welled up with tears whenever they met her own. But it was the frightened looks
from young children, visiting sick grandmothers and grandfathers, that made her
start to worry about what a mirror might reveal.
In the early days, the psychologist had told her she wasn’t ready to
see her own reflection. One day, she waited until her mother had left the room
to visit the hospital cafeteria before rummaging through her handbag. Finding a
small eye-shadow kit with a tiny, cracked mirror, her breath caught in her
throat as she began to slowly lift it, watching as the reflection moved up her
white hospital gown, reaching the rounded top. Slowly, it began to reveal some
puckered, raw skin at the base of her neck. Gasping in surprise, she had thrown
the make-up as hard as she could, sending it clattering against the opposite
wall. A small puff of pink powder burst from the broken pieces, creating an eerie,
shimmering glow that slowly settled on the floor. Her body shook with dry,
wracking sobs as an agonising sadness began to pour from her heart.
______________
Closing the folder, she took several deep breaths, waiting for her
heartbeat to slow. Standing, she carried the empty coffee mug back into the
kitchen, aware of her ghostlike reflection moving within the veiled mirror on
the opposite side of the room. Refilling the kettle, she carefully looked away
from its shiny surface.
______________
Now, it haunts my every
waking moment. I know I will be forced to confront it eventually. I fear my own
reflection; the fear itself startles me wherever I turn. I close my eyes and
see a creature staring back at me; it reaches out and claws its way into my
soul, tearing my skin apart, leaving me trembling on the earth. My reflection
follows me as I move through each day, it creeps up my spine, and courses
through my veins. Yesterday, a cry of shock escaped from my mouth as my own
shadow suddenly appeared on a wall in front of me.
The mirror - my reflection
- is always there, waiting patiently for me.
______________
Gently placing the coffee mug back on the bench, she turned away
from the kettle and retraced her steps back into the living room. She slowly
moved towards her veiled reflection, gazing at the ghostly outline staring out
from behind the pink sheet. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she moved
forwards. It was time.
______________
The mirror has been my
nightmare, haunting me. Now, it will be my release.
______________
Her father arrived home late from work. All the lights in the house
were on, illuminating the deafening silence. On the kitchen table was a neatly
folded bed sheet - the one that had been draped across the mirror since the
accident. Peering into the living room, he noticed the mirror was gone. He
turned and began to move quickly down the hallway, dread growing heavy in his
stomach as he found each room empty. With a sickening fear creeping up his
throat, he pushed the bathroom door open, and sank to his knees. Her body was
floating in the bath; the water was a bright, glistening shade of red. Her
face, gently framed by the water, stared blankly at the ceiling, impossibly
white against the blood-red backdrop; her wrists floated near the surface,
revealing smooth, deep stripes of open skin.
Floating brightly next to her were large broken shards of mirror,
reflecting the light from above.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.