1 Is That Me?

Reflections.

My reflection always appeared a bit... off.

I often caught glimpses of it, but never really thought much about it. Yet, as time went on, the occasional "that was strange" thoughts had increased by a grave amount; and now, here I am.

Below my bed, fearing what is yet to come.

My parents first bought the mirror when I was 7. Just a few days prior to the first day of second grade. It was placed in my room by my dad, hoping to have dual benefits: The new mirror would allow me to dress for school every morning and simultaneously alleviate my mother's hectic morning routine especially since my little sister was soon to enter kindergarten and required additional assistance in the mornings.

The first... unpleasant encounter happened only the day before second grade. Oblivious of what it would eventually become, my dad placed it next to the bedroom door without warning, ignoring the several objections I had against it. Though I would never admit it, I had always enjoyed being dressed by my mother so this new idea, of dressing myself didn't really suit well with me.

Nevertheless, it stayed.

The mirror was tall and skinny. My mom called it a "body mirror", which seemed a bit grandiose to me: It was just a long mirror.

Right?

Protests against it quickly wore off, and that mirror became a part of my morning routine. Every morning, I dressed. And every morning, my reflection stared back at me, empty eyes looking straight at me.

Initially, I didn't take notice; my innocence confused the painful dread with grogginess, which seemed normal, right?

Everyone is tired in the mornings. It only seemed normal if my eyes would be playing tricks on me. Perhaps it was because I never got proper sleep the night prior. Nothing out of the ordinary.

It all happened during a bright afternoon when I was 9. It was lunch time at school so we were standing in a single file line, waiting for the cafeteria ladies to pour the slop they call food, onto our plates. As children, we never really cared about how we looked, it was more like an attempt to enjoy our lives to the fullest. Meaning, I never really looked at reflective surfaces that often but, catching a glimpse of my reflection through the tinted windows of the courtyard caused me have a quick double-take.

My reflection looked…alive.

I was confused.

The mirror at home showed this lifeless, pain stricken, pale boy. As if I had only faced pain and abuse for the several years of my life but... the reflection at school reflected a cheerful boy. Eyes filled with joyous emotions, contrasting the empty hollow gray ones at home. A gummy smile plastered on this reflection, I was looking at a happy child.

I was happy.

Why was I happy here and not at home?

For years, I searched for justified reasons on why I appeared to be a corpse at home yet a gleeful boy everywhere elseyet, no matter how much I searched, no answer had yet to prevail.

Even learning about reflections in 7th grade didn't justify what I was seeing, no matter how much or how little light I'd look at my reflection with; at home I appeared to be one thing, in other places I'd be something else.

The reflection in my mirror was not me.

Sure it looked like me but, unless the rest of the reflective surfaces I've looked at myself in are falsely showing who I am; the person in my mirror was someone else.

The years passed, and I never told anyone, afraid to being labelled as a crazy teenager seeking attention. It became evident that something was wrong with the mirror, but the variances were always only aesthetic. I blamed it on the bad lighting in my dimly lit bedroom.

My skin tone looked unhealthy. My eyes didn't look human; they looked lifeless, a pale gunmetal gray. My lips had no colour and always appeared dry yet, I never questioned why I looked like that, I became used to my appearance. I liked the way I looked. I liked the corpse in front of me.

-

-

3 months ago, on this day. It finally happened.

My reflection disobeyed me.

Preparing for my first college interview, I tightened the tie that had been hanging loosely around my neck and began to rehearse a few of the lines I had written for this interview, highlighting my wit and knowledge. Feeling confident enough, I lowered my hands to my side, straightened up my posture and puffed my chest, like a soldier ready to go to war. I examined my attire from head to toe, nodding at myself for approval of the formal atire that adorned my figure today. As I turned away to grab my grab, I couldn't help but to notice something peculiar.

My reflection hadn't followed me.

Quickly turning back towards the mirror, my eyes widened. It just stood there. Staring at me – motionless. I moved my hands nonsensically, like a mime waving enthusiastically. I raised my hands, wiggled my fingers, but it stood there, hands down, no motion.

A stranger in my room. I took a step forward, to inspect closer as I thought my eyes were just playing tricks on me but the man he stood still. I reached towards my reflection, feeling whether the smooth glass was still there or had it disappeared.

The man stood still, maintaining eye contact with me, as if glaring into my soul. I watched as his expression contorted from that of a dead mans to a menacing smirk. As if telling me, "there is no way out."

I felt my stomach turn. I hurriedly backed away and sat on my bed, away from the mirrors line of sight. It was highly possible that I just imagined it, but deep down, I had been waiting for this day to come. Gathering the courage to overcome this psyched out encounter, I stood in the mirror once more but all that looked back, was the pale, hollowed out boy I grew accustomed to for all my life.

These occurrences have become more frequent throughout the months. Almost like a daily event.

Little did I know, the worst was yet to come.

I felt particularly brave this evening, drunk on livid excitement for being accepted to my dream school. I wanted to challenge him, knowing he couldn't really do much to me, right?

He was the one confined to the mirror, not me. I stood in front of the mirror, staring at him. He was bound to break character at one point and plus, its not like anything would happen. I've done this several times before, its not like anything would happen.

I stood, staring at my mirror, challenging him to defy me, bobbing my head side to side, smirking, as he rightfully mirrored every one of my moves.

"Ah come on! Indulge me!" I said conceitedly, as my head movement became more extreme, heavy with arrogance. Waiting for this sick man to break, so I can laugh at his obedience.

But as those words left my mouth, he stopped. He froze, head tilted mid bob. "How about you indulge in me instead?" he said with hooded eyes. As the room filled with the deep, husky voice, melted honey having no comparison to the enticement the voice brought with it. As he straightened his neck and looked back at me, smirking widely. Mischief hidden behind his gray irises.

Immediately, I felt embarrassed and cowered in his gaze, I felt my face hot as my eyes widened. Before I could collect myself, He took a step forward, growing in size, making me stumble back in fear, knocking over a stack of papers I had neatly organized on my onyx black desk. My knees buckled as I reached out to grasp a stable object to keep me from falling down.

He stepped forward again and naturally, I recoiled; this time stumbling to the ground as I sat there, legs bent against my chest, feeling the sweat drip down my face as feeling of anxiety and panic began to settle in.

He was now towering over me. He stood there, so large, half of his body took up the entirety of this so-called "body mirror". He stared, and his face changed again. Horror filled me as I stared at a stranger that looked like a possessed version of me.

One end of his lips curled up slowly, creating that smirk I had seen over the last 3 months. He stared at me, taunting, towering over me.

He slowly shook his head. His demonic smile remained unchanged. He raised his right hand, index finger and thumb extended out: The universal hand gesture for a gun. He placed the tip of his index finger on his temple, his thumb aiming towards the ceiling. Imitating a gunshot with his hand, recoiling his head to side. Psychotic grin remaining unchanged, imitating the dead.

Evidently, I began to thrash around, as if feeling someone hold on to me, in hopes of being free from this demonic entity that stood in front of me. I crawled away, moving as far as the boundaries of my room would allow me to go.

As I looked back, he was gone. Not a single trace of him insight, almost as if he was never there.

Using my desk as support, I slowly stood. The room was spinning and the throbbing in my head began to grow more and more as the seconds on the clock ticked by. Reaching out to rub my temples, in hopes to soothe the migraine even if its a temporary pain relief.

Suddenly becoming aware of the incident that occurred, I hurriedly reached out to my beds comforter; throwing onto the mirror.

Nothing would happen if he can't see me right, its common knowledge but...

Every single day, when I go to college, when Im at home, wherever I am. Wherever I go. He's always there.

"I'm going to kill you..."

Its the voices.

From the very first day I had this encounter, the voices are always taunting me in my head.

It's going to kill me.

Save me.

Please.