Disclaimer: All characters and locations belong to their respective owners.
The Thing in the Mirror
It's happening again.
The dreams are starting to become more lucid, more vivid, as if a war is playing out and you are standing in the midst of it. Every sound, every color, every smell, every feeling, every taste is clear and sharp, like a harp that's string has been plucked by dexterous, callous fingers. The harsh report of gunshots scraping against your ears. The roar of helicopter blades and hovercraft engines tossing your hair and enticing the bristles on your neck. The cool brush of water droplets and blistering heat melding onto your skin like an eager, hungry parasite. The taste of copper and stale air lingering on your tongue.
The world as you know it has suddenly become a cornucopia of activity.
Except…these dreams…you don't recall ever being part of them. Up until this point, you had only memories of yourself: as a young woman, as a member of the GOTT and the Encounter of Shadow-work, as a person who would rather jump into the line of fire and fight the good fight her way than standing idly by and watching an inevitable doom unfold. You do what you have to do because you are your own person with your own rules, something most if not all the ES members find reckless and detrimental, but their comments (especially Lumiere's) don't shake you in the least bit. Being you isn't something to be ashamed about.
As you stare into your reflection, eyes like dollops of rich amber gazing back, you think their words may have an ounce of truth to them, after all.
The mirror is the newest addition in the large room, a full-body rectangle of glass propped in the corner opposite the bed and bay window. You bought it at a thrift store the minute you learned you were given the week off, and until now you haven't approached it. You've asked yourself over and over, why wait this long, why be afraid of a thing that shows your exact image and the same surroundings, why are you doing this in the first place? There must be a lot of people out there in the universe going through it – hearing things they would never say; doing things they would never do or have thought of doing; feeling things so alien, so all-consuming, so terrifying, it is the stuff nightmares and mind games are made of.
You tell yourself, I'm not afraid, it's just a mirror; everyone looks at mirrors. I'm only going to look myself over for a couple of minutes and that's that. What difference is it going to make?
"This is me," you say to the mirror, and to emphasis your point you reach out and place a pink hand on the dusty pane. "This is what I look like. This is how I sound. I remember things I've done and know what they are. I am aware of what goes on around me." Your palm slides down through the grey-white snow, and there's something wistful, something profound about this gesture you find endearing – a sweet, agonizing pain that feels both familiar and confusing, as a soldier might feel when deciding if she should stay by her loved ones or abandon them for the siren song of war that bays to any who free the sun from suspending twilight. "This is who I always will be."
A friend.
A compatriot.
A fighter.
A—
"Murderer."
You gasp. The brightness, the realness, snatched from your vision in the blink of smooth, polished, river-cool eyes, taking in the shadowed wraith whose arms drape round your neck.
A sly, lazy smile takes her, your, lips, revealing teeth white and immaculate and dreadful sharp. "It has always been with you. The scar you peel away is a wound that can never be fully healed."
What…What is this? WHAT IS—
"This is what you are," she says, leaning forward, breasts pressed flush against your back and shoulder blades, breath hot and tickling the outer shell of your ear. "This is what you've been, time and again, time without an end."
This isn't happening.
"These hands you have? They have strangled flesh, crushed metal, and swam in blood. This body you possess? It is a mural you have made, painted it in lead, plasma burns, and the lives of faceless dreamers."
You don't exist.
"Those long, shapely legs…they've carried you farther than any craft, taken you deeper than any sky and ocean you have ever seen; away from the slaughter, away from the destruction."
No.
"And those eyes – those beautiful, naked eyes…."
That can't be me….
"They've seen everything."
IT CAN'T BE!
A blood-curdling scream rents the air. Your fist shoots out and smashes into the mirror. A shower of glistening white-silver shards explodes outward, fall to the floor and lay like bodies left rotting and forgotten at a morgue.
You stumble away from the frame, your limbs suddenly taken hold by a violent paroxysm. The room is deathly still, giving ear to fast, frantic pants and the muted leak of dripping blood echoing far too loudly for your comfort.
This isn't happening. This isn't real. You're not going crazy, you're not. You didn't get much sleep, that's what it is. Not enough sleep. Your mind's playing a trick on you – a dirty, nasty, little trick, because there's no such thing as ghosts, no such thing as wraiths, no such thing as an evil twin, no such—
"Evil?" Deep, sultry laughter, tracing an illicit chill down your spine. "You think I'm evil? Fool, there is no such thing as black or white, no such thing as color. Good and evil come from perspective, not perception."
An icy wall, wrapped like the crushing might of a constrictor, squeezing you of breath and thought and reflex. One translucent hand rests on your hip, its slender fingers spread possessively on the bony protrusion. The other holds your chin and directs you to a pair of full red lips that brushes tenderly, mockingly, at the corner of your gaping mouth.
"Don't you know?" she whispers huskily, fixing you with an intense stare as coals warmed by the ardor of blazing fire and crackling embers. "We've always been together, and we always will be."
"You're wrong!" You yell. "I am my own person! You don't have any say in what I do!"
The phantom hums and closes her eyes, a frown marring the brackish cast of her pale skin. "That's true. My words have the tendency to go unheeded; however" she reveals her sight, and in those saffron portals a terrible, awesome beast stirs, "it doesn't change the fact you consist of me, and without me, through all the troubled times we've endured, you would not be here standing. Deny me as much as you will, but don't forget I am you and you are I."
"I'm not you! I'll never BE YOU!"
"I am what gives you strength. I am what gives you the privilege to decide what's right or wrong. When words are worthless my actions say more than the gavel that delivers justice."
"Go away! Leave me alone!"
"Never forget who you are. Who we are. Nothing can change that."
"I'm not a murderer!" you rage, pushing away from her. "I'M NOT A MURDERER!" You take a step forward and throw your entire weight into a tightly closed, nail-biting fist – because she's wrong, she's fake, and you hope you hit hard enough to get the message across.
She smirks and laughs as you phase through her, and from fingertips to the base of the shoulder your arm is lit ablaze. You grunt and pull away but just as you do she takes you by the elbow and her palm is like a branding iron that has sat too long in the ovens.
She leans in and touches her forehead against yours, molds her form into curves and valleys painstakingly sculpted, chiseled and refined under your dexterous care. "You really should stop running. The past is going to catch up, and when that happens you will have no choice but to confront it."
"I know my past," you tell her brusquely, stressing to put down the fearful quavering on the tip of your tongue. "I…I don't need to be reminded!"
"Is that so?" she admits in a low, throaty rumble. Dark brown lashes flutter, casting a canopy over enticing gold. Her mouth forms a firm, thin line, cheekbones drawn and framed by a mop of wild auburn tresses, and it strikes you with a horror which suspends as a sword dangling by a thread of horsehair. "Maybe you should be." And before you can do anything she moves, doesn't walk through but into you, a wall of water inundating seamlessly upon first touch.
You take a gasp of air, and all at once the world starts to unwind.
War. Blood. Red sunsets. Black sunrises.
{Warm….}
Screams. Gunshots. Engines. Smoke. Gunpowder. Plasma. Ozone. Fire.
{So…warm….}
Wounded people.
Dead people.
Terrified, running, fleeing.
{Take your hands off the console.}
Cold metal.
Warm flesh.
Twisted metal.
Cold flesh.
Roaring wind. Flying embers.
{Let me go!}
A door. Walls. Rust. Decay. Despair.
Torn nails. Bruised hands. Sore throat.
Can't get out. CAN'T GET OUT.
{LET ME GO!!}
Whole glass. Shattered glass. Sparking circuits. Whining alarms.
{Your body may be different, but you're still the same as ever.} The cold snap of weaponry. The drone of security cameras.
{I said, take your hands off the console. NOW.}
Breathing hard. Can't move. Pain like no other. Losing focus. Losing blood SO MUCH BLOOD—
{Don't die!}
Tears. Falling. Unending. Small hands. Petite hands. Cracked, chapped, beautiful.
{I can't bear to lose you again!}
Again?
{No…NO!}
Stars. Planets. Systems. Galaxies. Universes.
Supernovas. Black holes. Implosions. Explosions. Soundless vacuums.
{NO!!}
NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU SCREAM.
{Why can't I reach it…?}
{Millions of people are going TO DIE!}
{It's too late. It's…already been activated.}
NO ONE CAN SEE YOU CRY.
{Wake up! WAKE UP!}
NO ONE CAN FEEL YOUR PAIN.
Life.
Death.
NO ONE
Rebirth.
Sin.
NO ONE CAN
Purity.
Give life.
Take a life.
Life. Death. Life. Death.
NO ONE CAN UNDERSTAND
LIFEDEATHLIFEDEATHLIFEDEATH—
A final, damning cry mingling with a newborn's first shout, blinding light purging ascending darkness—
You awake, alarmed and high on adrenaline. Sweat plasters to your brow, your skin, soaking to your sheets. Your eyes search the pre-dawn glow – left and right, right and left, a metronome to your rapidly beating heart.
There is no talking shadows, no bullet-riddled walls, bent helicopter blades, raining hellfire. There is only the thick lulling silence, the ticking clock, and the infrequent drone of passing hovercraft.
You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling as you wait for your breath to slow. It appears strange and unfamiliar to you, as if you are trapped inside a steel prison. For all but a few seconds you see not your room but the bridge of the La Muse, watching through blurred, watery vision the planet Aeinias detonate like a blood-drenched white rose in bloom, and you blink and shake your head hard to wipe the images away.
It's just a dream, you assure yourself. Just a dream. Dreams can't hurt me. Dreams are part of the imagination. Dreams don't come true. Nothing more.
You sigh and toss aside the coverlets, too warm to be encased in their comfort. Instead, you take a moment to stretch out and roll on your side, facing away from the window.
You meet the mirror's pristine surface, and in it a smoky specter and her devilish smirk, her arm draped loosely round your middle.
"I'm still here," she drawls teasingly.
You scream and recoil in horror. You turn away, curl up in a ball and hide your head in your hands, eyes screwed shut so tight tears slip through the cracks and dot your dark lashes in silvery-blue spider webs. "This isn't real," you murmur. "This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't REAL. This isn't real…."
Soon the world around you vanishes, and all that remains – and what is real – are the furious tremors overwhelming you, your frantic mantra, and the haunting reflection which gazes back with hungry, thirsting eyes.
Several hours later, under a sky that is far too bright and a sun far too cheery, you exit the thrift store and breathe a much-needed sigh of relief. It's gone. It's gone, and there's no more reason to look at it or any other. There's nothing to be afraid of. There's nothing to lose sleep (or your sanity) over.
You are free.
But you're not out of the woods yet. There's still the matter with your…dreams? Memories? Out of body experiences? Whatever they are, they have to be dealt with – and as you stand outside the entrance and stare at the bottle of Tranquilizer capsules in your hand, you may have found your cure.
You open the cap, break the safety seal with the prick of a nail, and shake out three capsules onto your palm. One half is a soft shade of cinnamon brown, and the other an off-color white. As you roll their tiny, cylindrical bodies along your padded fingertips, you are reminded of
{– bullets – harsh, coughing spurts bouncing from wall to wall – echoing like final knells of doom struck by a hammer on an anvil; crying in the dead night for blood, your blood, her blood, sinners' blood–}
the hard plastic you would find used as packaging for all sorts of mundane miscellany, or bioplastic sheets toughened by howling blow-dryers after they are stapled to cold casement windows. If you look closely (and you do, once the pills cease their gyrations), you can see the powdery substance sliding to and fro.
You give a weary sigh and close your hand on the pills. They will make you forget those horrible sights and sounds. They will help you sink deeper into the thickening, black abyss. They will hide you from the thing that lives in mirrors, the thing that clings to your very being and refuses to let go.
You put the pills in your mouth, tilt your head back, and swallow them dry.
They will make things right.