Guidance

Warning: This story contains violent situations and other content that may be disturbing to some people. Reader discretion is advised.

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. To be honest, it wasn't exactly a reflection. It was more like a snapshot, a movie reel still.

I set it face down on my bedside table and gave my head a shake. Obviously, I was still dreaming, or the stress had finally gotten to me.

It made sense that my eyes were playing tricks on me. Johnathan had just moved the week before, leaving me with all the bills and all 4 of our kids. Work was an absolute nightmare as we prepared for our fiscal year-end. And I wasn't sleeping, at least not much, or well.

I picked the mirror back up and the scene was still there. It didn't make sense. It was a car, my car, I could tell by the purple seat covers and the disco ball air freshener. But it wasn't me driving, it was my friend Tonee.

I gave it a quick wipe with my hand, and there I was, back again in all my lack of glory. Every line, every blemish, both bags. It wasn't a pretty sight.

I got up and still a bit groggy, went to the kitchen to make coffee. Ah, the sweet, brown elixir of life! I sat down to enjoy its creamy goodness when I heard a knock at my door.

I looked up and saw Tonee's big green eyes and massive mop of blonde waves looking through the window.

"Hey," I opened the door, "What..."

"Cam," she interrupted, breathless, "Gimme your keys! I need your car, just for 10 minutes!" She pushed past me, frantic.

I opened my mouth to respond, but she kept going.

"I'm late for work!" she looked at me with panicked desperation, "If I'm late again I'll be fired, there's no time to get the bus! You can come get it, I'll take the bus home, pleeeeeeezzzzzzzze!"

"But you don't drive," I said flatly. I love her to death. She's a sweet person, but she lacks a few key things, time management skills, and a driver's license.

Tonee leaned against the wall dramatically, "I can drive, you know that. Come on!"

I shook my head. I sympathized, I really did, but I wasn't about to just hand over my car to an unlicensed driver. Anything could happen.

"God you can really be a selfish bitch sometimes," she snarled as she stormed out, "If I get fired, it's on you!" She slammed my back door behind her.

I went back to my tepid coffee and grabbed the paper. I had a few days off and I was intent on enjoying them. I listened to the birds outside chirping and mentally planned my day.

I was lost in the middle of my planned afternoon walk with Chewy, my Beagle, on the Boardwalk when I heard a loud screeching sound, followed by a crunch and something else, cracking or snapping.

I jumped up and went outside and there it was, my car, good old Penny Purple, accordioned into half her original size with a big Metro Green Team truck up her ass! A skinny young guy, about 25 stood beside the green beast, staring at my car, confused.

I hurled a string of profanities at the kid. I felt the heat of my temper rise inside me. I can't remember what I said, but I'm sure "lawsuit," "compensation, " and "stupidity," were in there.

He stammered, visbly shaken. Something about brakes and my bins being set back too far from the curb.

I came back inside, exhausted. I'd been fighting too many people for far too long and this little pissant? No. Not today. I crawled back into bed and covered my entire body as I willed the adrenaline to stop coursing through my veins.

I eventually fell asleep and woke up just after noon. I took a shower and got ready to take Chewy out. I grabbed the mirror from the bedside table and there it was again another snapshot.

It took me aback a bit. Strange. Twice in one day? It was me, in the kitchen, with a chicken.

Chicken wouldn't be a bad idea for supper. I'd been relying on the kids to make their own meals most of the week, so a nice home-cooked chicken dinner would be most welcome, a comfort, just like when they were little and life was still good.

Chewy enjoyed his walk. He liked it much more than I did. I should have eaten before we left. I was hungry and cranky. And the cold air off the ocean didn't help.

I opened the freezer to get some chicken. There wasn't any. I remember it was on sale last week, but the sale was a joke. I wasn't paying an arm and a leg for chicken. I grabbed some pork chops instead.

As they thawed, I started peeling potatoes and chopping veggies for a salad. The kids came in, bubbling with energy from the day's events. Kyla started talking about something funny that happened in her Music class and...CHOP!

I didn't feel the knife on my finger. I just felt the wetness of the blood oozing out of it. My daughter screamed, "Mom, your finger!" She grabbed my wrist and tugged it toward the sink.

As soon as the cold water from the tap hit it, I felt the searing sting. It refused to stop bleeding.

Seven stitches and a 3 hour wait later, I was almost as good as new with hungry kids, pork chops, potatoes, and no salad.

That night, when I went to bed, I put the mirror inside my sock drawer. I knew deep down it was nothing, but I was still a little creeped out. Two visions of things that didn't happen and two shitty things that did. I'm not superstitious, but I'm not about to tempt fate either.

I twisted and turned but eventually fell asleep. It was fitful, the kind of sleep where you wake up every so often and think, "Wow, that was messed up, I'll have to remember this in the morning," and then nod off, only to do it again.

I don't remember any of the dream now, aside from the fact that I was holding that damn mirror, standing in the dark and everything felt off as if there was something wrong, but whatever it was wasn't obvious.

I lay in bed for a while, letting my mind wander until Chewy came in and jumped on my face. We had just enough time for a quick snuggle before he whined to be let out to attend to nature's call.

My finger throbbed as I got dressed. I sat on the edge of the bed and there it was, on the table again, the mirror.

I was perplexed. I looked back at the dresser. I was sure I didn't take it out. I hadn't even opened my sock drawer. I hate socks. Maybe I only thought about putting the mirror away. I wasn't sure anymore.

I felt my hand reach over and grab it without even thinking. I smashed it back down on the table hard. A mix of shock and disbelief washed over me in waves. It was smirking at me! Actually smirking.

Not like a face or anything, there was no face to be seen in it, not even mine, just another still frame of me, this time sitting on a park bench with Chewy at my feet. But it was distorted, crinkled at the edges as if the glass had smugly melted upwards and to the side. Smirking.

I collected myself and picked it up again. Nothing. Just my face. I sighed deeply, relieved, but troubled. I'm not sure how a person can really be both of those things simultaneously, but I was.

I thought about the night before, the mirror, the snapshots, the car, and my finger. Maybe the mirror was trying to tell me something. Or maybe, I was projecting my own thoughts onto the mirror. Either way, I knew I was taking Chewy to the park.

We had a nice time. We walked around the water and then sat and watched the ducks. I spent the rest of the day attending to the fallout from the day before, insurance calls, securing a rental car, and screaming at some ineffectual functionary in the City Works Department.

Before I knew it, it was almost 4:00 pm and I was running late for Dylan's football game. It was his 3rd year on the team and I never missed. I changed my clothes, threw my hair in a ponytail, and gave myself a quick look in the mirror.

There I was, sitting on my living room sofa, reading.

I stared at the image, hard. A strange sensation rumbled in the pit of my stomach. Gently at first, increasing in strength as it rose up my flank and chest, and into my throat. It was as if my blood had frozen in my veins and my heart was furiously pounding to thaw them. A cloud of doom fell over me.

I felt physically ill for a moment. Then it passed. The sensations were gone, the freezing and pounding, but the knawing foreboding was still there.

I thought for a moment. Maybe I shouldn't go to the game. Maybe I should stay home and relax. Dylan would understand.

I shoved the idea out of my mind. Anger moved in swiftly replacing doom. There was no way I was letting a mirror keep me from my son's football game! I told him I'd be there. If he can't count on his own mother, who can he count on?

I jumped in the car and headed to the field. By this time I was more than fashionably late. And I still had the mirror in my hand. I tossed it in the back seat. Fool thing, probably better to have it out of the house.

I parked about a mile away from the school. All the good spots were taken. Okay, it wasn't a mile, but it was further than I wanted to walk. I trotted toward the bleachers and hurried to squeeze my way to a seat.

Splat! Then a crunch. I went down right in front of Doobie Dempster. Well, most of me did, my arm landed right in his lap. I shudder to think what I grabbed onto as I fell.

I screamed in pain. The crunch was my ankle, my knee, and Doobie's camera bag, complete with camera.

The entire place went silent. I felt searing heat in my cheeks as every eye in town was on me. Dobbie asked if I was okay and helped me to the seat next to him.

I lied and said I was. I just wanted everyone to stop looking at me. I sat there, in agony, until the game was over.

Luckily nothing was broken. My knee was bruised and swollen and my ankle was sprained. But it was Doobie's camera that got the worst of it.

From then on, I knew what I had to do. It seemed crazy. I can't explain it, but it's true.

I began consulting the mirror for guidance. First thing in the morning and at regular intervals throughout the day. At first, it remained on my night table, but later, I found it was more convenient just to bring it with me in a large handbag.

It showed me what I was going to do and as long as I did it, everything was fine. It wasn't that big of a deal really, sort of like how some people follow the advice of a psychic or their horoscopes. I even made up a silly song about it:

Mirror, mirror,

fine and true,

tell me, tell me,

what to do.

I didn't tell anyone about it. I mean, even though it became normal for me, how exactly do you explain you ask a mirror for guidance in your daily life to people without getting the side eye?

It was all mostly pretty benign stuff, chicken or fish, shopping, or a walk. It became a habit.

One day, it showed me at Jane's Department Store. I looked shifty, and I had something in my hand that I was stuffing into my bag. Guilt washed over me in advance.

"I can't do that!" I said aloud into the mirror, "I can't steal!"

I avoided Jane's all day and ended up with a flat tire in my own driveway, a sore throat, and a stuffy nose.

The same still shot popped up on the mirror the next morning. I remember it was a Sunday. I went to Jane's and browsed around intent to do that and only that, browse, not steal.

But the thought wouldn't leave me. The impulse was implanted. I could feel a swell of anticipation, a rush of adrenaline, a sort of sick excitement tinged with an awful feeling of wrongdoing. I grabbed a sweater and shoved it into my bag, straightened myself, and walked out.

I hurried to the car. A huge wave of euphoria engulfed me. It was a high I'd never experienced before! The power! Oh, god, the feeling of power from knowing you've gotten away with something! I can't even describe it, it's like sex and bungee jumping all at the same time, with chocolate cake on the side.

Soon, I was stealing anything I could get my hands on. Whatever the mirror showed me, I took. I stole from my friends, my coworkers, stores, my parents, and even my kids. I should have been mortified, but any trepidation, any feelings of guilt or remorse I had in the beginning soon vanished.

As long as I had the mirror, I was untouchable! Anyway, it was just stuff. Most people have too much of it.

The mirror started to get dark around the edges, tarnished. It was barely noticeable at first. But it spread quickly. It was a cheap mirror from one of the dollar stores, so I wasn't exactly surprised.

But as the darkness crept along the reflective glass, so too did the mirror's guidance. Its grip on me grew too. I was consulting it so often, it was impossible to hide it completely. Twenty, thirty times a day.

I became paralyzed without it. Actually paralyzed. I couldn't move, couldn't act, couldn't make the simplest of decisions. Do I wear a red shirt or a blue one? Shall I have more coffee or not?

I wasn't making choices. I just looked into the glass and did what was shown to me. No questions. No thought. Just look then do. It was sort of refreshing, not having to think, not having responsibility for my actions.

The stealing soon turned into more sinister activities, computer hacking, embezzlement, sabotaging coworkers, you name it, the mirror showed it and I did it.

As the mirror and I became increasingly indistinguishable from one another, things began to change. I grew to hate myself, and it. It wasn't so much the things I was doing. Like I said before, I really had no strong feelings about that at all. It was the power it had over me I began to resent.

Somewhere along the way, the roles were reversed. I wasn't in control anymore. I wasn't asking it anything. It was telling me. And there wasn't a thing I could do about it.

I tried not picking it up. I sat on my hands. I hid it. I stuffed it between my mattress and box spring. Nothing worked. Without it in my hand, without the feeling of its hard plastic handle and the little oval hole at the bottom against my finger, I couldn't breathe. My throat closed over. My hands trembled and my head throbbed while sweat beaded on my forehead.

It called to me, beckoned me, without saying a word. I hated it, but I loved and needed it too.

The other night, I picked it up, the tarnish covered about half the surface and it showed something terrifying. My mouth went dry, my heart lept into my throat cutting off my breath. The air around me went cold, but I was sweating buckets.

It was me, on the side of a road, dark, at night. I was beside the car standing over someone. It looked like a man. I don't know how, but I just knew, that he was dead and that I killed him, or was going to, if I followed the mirror's instructions.

I did a lot of bad things, but as bad as they were, as bad as I'd become, I had a line, and murder was on the other side of it. I shook my head and set the mirror face down on the table.

I tried to calm myself, repeating over and over, "You don't have to do this, you are in control, you don't have to do this, you are in control." I didn't feel in control. I felt the whole world spinning and the earth beneath my feet giving way.

I picked it up again only to see the same thing. My fear morphed into an all-consuming rage. I smashed the thing. I whacked it against the side of the table and stomped on it when it hit the floor. I could feel the glass crunching under my slippers as adrenaline coursed through my body.

I felt powerfully strong. Finally! Finally, I was able to put an end to the nightmare. Finally, I was able to take my life back. No more mirror.

I left the mess there and went for a drive to clear my head. It was raining steadily, but not hard. The sky was a mix of black and grey.

I drove out toward Millerton's farm, out on Route 17 N. The rain picked up becoming a torrent. I pulled over to let the watery assault pass. Another car was parked a few feet ahead of me. I thought whoever it was was waiting out the storm too.

As the rain slowed, I could see they weren't. A man, thin, young, was holding a phone up to the sky as if he were looking for a signal. I locked my doors and looked in my review mirror, hoping maybe someone was behind me, if I needed help.

Bile rose from my stomach, burning my throat. There it was again - the snapshot from the broken mirror. I screamed. The man increased his slow amble to a quick trot to my driver's side door. He rapped on the window.

"You okay, ma'am?"

Tears were streaming down my face. I said something. I don't know what. I nodded. I shook my head. I looked past his hip to the mirror. It was still there. I looked up at him.

A wave of calm washed over me, an all-consuming sense of peace. I knew what I had to do. I opened the door and got out. The young man stepped back. He said something about the rain or a flat tire, I'm not sure.

Suddenly, my hands were around his throat. He struggled, his eyes wide with confused fear. He fell to his knees. It was like I had super-human strength. My hands were vessels of raw power, givers of life and death.

I looked down at him, his eyes pleading and something in me snapped. The power vanished and regret took its place. I let go of him and uttered a low, harsh growl, "Get out of here!"

I don't remember much after that. I must have driven home because I woke up in my bed. The broken mirror's still on the floor. I'm afraid to pick it up.

And that's the whole story, Your Honour. Please don't make me tell you what I saw in the holding cell mirror. Just tell me what's going to happen to me and keep that bailiff close to you. Real close.