The Broken Mirror
The Broken Mirror
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own.
This feels exactly like being trapped in a burning building. It was a healthy combination of claustrophobia and heart-aching hopelessness. I wouldn’t go as far as saying this feels exactly like burning alive, but it feels exactly like almost being burned alive. The once light, liquid atmosphere quickly hardens into seriousness as minutes, disguised as hours, pass by. My heart beats begin to quicken into a harsh cacophony as the reality of my situation dawns upon me. Repeatedly, I close my eyes and open them, failing to acquire the relief I so fiercely desire. No one is left but me, me, and me. Three pairs of arms move in unison frantically pushing for an exit. Glass walls disguised as doors mock me and confine me. The color red, once my best friend, casts a glow down onto me, me, and me. Three pairs of feet run towards another wrong turn. I am stuck in this maze of endless faces disparaging me. The perspiration of my shallow breaths condenses on the cold mirror before me, a reminder of the shower I took before coming here. It’s a distant memory, hazy and liquid, not staying long enough to materialize. Weighing down my bones, fright finds a home in my body. It sits on my throat with its bulky weight robbing me of the use of my voice. I make another wrong turn, then another. My efforts lay in vain swimming along with my other failures. “Anastasia! It’s not funny anymore. Where are you?” I breathlessly scream, putting all my effort into every last letter.