Memory Of The Mirror

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. The noises were buzzing in my ears, I had a hard time thinking. “What exactly happened?” I thought to myself as I witnessed the lights flickering, like in a suspenseful movie where the protagonist is about to uncover the murderer. The glass was shattered and out of proportion. While some smaller shards twinkled on the counter and in the bathroom sink, the big pieces were still intact. Yet, there was still something totally wrong with this scene. How exactly did I come to be in a stranger’s bathroom?

I observed myself in the mirror again, the girl in the reflection, was me, but she wasn’t me at the same time. My mirror self had very greasy, and slightly but still straight dark brunette hair, but I had blond hair. She also had a tattered white tank top, her waist showing, and very loose blue jean fabric, but it was torn in many places. This doesn’t make sense to me. I had on a pink camisole with the lace fabric underneath my tight, long-sleeved, blue American Eagle sweater and the short blue jean skirt neatly ironed to erase the wrinkles.

Her makeup was a complete mess. Mascara was running down the sides of her face, staining her cheeks, The circles under her eyes were completely black, and I could see her blood vessels were popped out. She was either crying so hard, or she projected vomit somewhere. Was that old blood smeared on her neck and down her collarbone, or was that mud that was rubbed on her and now hardened? The colors were so close to each other, I couldn’t tell. It was really hard to identify.

The bathroom was cold and damp, yet, it was somehow nice and peaceful. The lights giving an unwelcome flicking was the only intruder in the room of solitude. But still, where the hell am I?

“I know where you are.” A voice reached out. The sound was almost echoing, like when a malevolent demon was whispering to you. The bathroom, though, didn’t feel off. I wasn’t an immediate danger. “It’s me. Psst! Over here.” I turn back again and the reflection was speaking, now giving a Cheshire grin. One that was slightly familiar to me, but I don’t know where I saw a person smile like that before. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at the moment. The small little hairs on my arms started to rise. “Why are you afraid? Don’t be afraid! Remember what you said - people who are afraid are weak.”

Wait, did I say that? It sounds something like that could’ve been said by an antagonist in a horror or suspenseful film, trying to manipulate the main character. Well, I’m not going to be that. “I don’t know what you mean. I am not sure what you are trying to say.”

“Do you think you can pose as yourself right at this very moment?” The reflection asked me. “Pose? I’m not posing anything.”

“Oh, come on, poser. I know a fake person when I see it. You used to say that too and you are caked with it.”

A banging noise reached my head. It was loud and made my vision fuzzy. I covered my ears and shut my eyes. I wished I didn’t. A silhouette of a woman was standing in front of me. She was for sure taller than me and very thin waist. I couldn’t make out the person, but I fear that I am able to recognize it. I shake off the fear and I face myself in the mirror, but the person was gone.

Instead, she popped right in front of me. I made a loud shout, startled at her popping in front of me. When I shouted, her mouth and facial expression mimicked mine. I move my right hand and she moved her left hand, just like a reflection.

“I am not a reflection, you see. I am your shadow. You cannot erase your darkest shadows. I will follow you until the day you are no longer living.” Irritation bubbled inside me. I formed my hand into a fist and moved to punch the girl, but she vanished and I made contact with the already broken mirror. Now my knuckles are starting to bleed.

The girl formed herself back in the mirror like it was a form of her safe haven. She started to giggle. “You don’t pay attention, do you? I am a shadow, you can’t hurt me. I am also a memory. Memories are our scars that you cannot erase. It will forever be branded on your skin.” Immediately as soon as she said that, my arms just started to burn. I began to panic, I removed my sweater and the scars on my arms began to burn. The scars started to bleed just like a new flesh wound. I start screaming again and start to wipe off the blood, but it just kept pouring like a small river.

I hear laughter from the mirror and I turn to face her. “Don’t you remember what happened and how you had to change? That was a lot of fun. Mr. Greyson had fun talking to you -

“Be quiet! Quiet! I don’t want to think about it!” “You cannot escape from it, Claire.”

No, that’s not my name. My name is Crystal. “Claire, don’t push me away. I am a memory. You know what you have done.” I shut my eyes tightly, praying to God for this nightmare or whatever this is to go away.

Silence finally filled the room. I open my eyes and the scene has completely changed. The mirror was repaired as if it had never been shattered. There was a pink rug on the floor by the toilet and the sink. I remember this rug. It was the same rug when I was home. I breathe, and my heartbeat was finally slowing down, breathing in the familiar scent of roses and oranges. Just like in high school… high school… wait… I’m thirty years old.

I open my eyes and my reflection is facing me in the mirror. It’s me now. I look down and I’m the girl from before. The torn jeans, the cuts, and the greasy hair. No, no, no. I’m reliving this. Not again. No!

The glass shattered on the bathroom door, along with muffled yelling. I retreat back to the corner of the bathroom and sink down on the floor, huddled and afraid of what is happening to me. Why was I born into this family? The alcoholism, the abuse, and the narcissism of my stepmother. She was the one who caused this family to go down in shambles. I was fine until she came along.

My parents got divorced because the feelings of love and romanticism just weren't the same anymore. But, they still remained friends and civil with each other. They came to my school events together, and my birthdays, and everything was fine. When my step-father entered the picture five years after the divorce, everything was fine and he was very kind to me. He even has a son about a few years younger than me and we got along quite a bit.

But, it wasn’t without the price of being in a new relationship. When my stepmother entered the picture, it went all wrong from there. I called her a witch because just overnight, my dad turned into something he wasn’t. He somehow manipulated my mom and stepfather to keep me custody one hundred percent and the judge fell for it. My stepmother wasn’t the kindest woman. She treated me like Cinderella, picking up after her ugly self and talked my father into not assisting me. Instead of doing some of the other chores, she and dad were locked in the bedroom; don’t need to tell you what was going on there.

When I said no for the first time, it went downhill hard. She wanted me to set up the living room and kitchen, including but not limited to cooking, cleaning, dusting, and setting up the dining room table for her white-collared, snobby, and narcissistic family for a dinner party. It’s her party; she could at least help some. Like a cougar, she launched me by the neck and slammed me against the wall. “You little wrench. How dare you say no to me. No one ever says no to me.” Her fingers squeezed my throat, I was starting to suffocate, attempting to breathe.

I’m not one for having manicures done, but I would have to thank my best friend for this exception to drag me into a nail salon to get my nails down. With my sharp nails, I scratched my stepmother, enough to draw her blood. She screamed in pain, alerting my father to appear from the bedroom to witness the scene. Something in my father snapped, grabbing the kitchen knife and grabbing my hair to yank me up.

Tears start to spill from my eyes, pleading with him to let me go and not do this to his daughter. “Why are you afraid, Crystal? Remember what I taught you - people who are afraid are weak.” My father has never taught me that. It was like he turned into a mafia boss or something who is trying to take over the neighborhood or something. To be fair, we weren’t exactly living in the nicest of neighborhoods in New York City.

My punishment for attacking my stepmother was no contact with the outside world for two weeks, which included not going to school. Thanks to my stepmother’s contacts, she had a doctor forge a written note to the school to inform them that I came down with some terrible and very contagious disease and that I should not go near anyone for fear that I will come in contact with someone and infect them. What a bunch of crap, but it was believable.

It was one of those times as a teenager I wished I was in school. The abuse was nonstop and there was no one to turn to for help. What didn’t help was they were also not going to contact the outside world also. They unplugged the landline and threw away the wires, removed the SIM card from their cellphones, and paid for friends to come and drive the vehicles away, to say they were going on vacation. No lights were on in the house, and the water and heat were canceled. It was pretty smart to seem like they aren’t home.

I suffered bruises, cuts, and anything you can think of. The water was shut off so I couldn’t do laundry or take a shower. I was forced to spray my clothes down with perfume. My teeth were disgusting and while I did have my hygiene stuff, I couldn’t use the water to rinse down my spit, I only resorted to mouthwash. I don’t even want to talk about going to the bathroom.

I only kept myself hidden and away in the bathroom. I just kept staring at myself in the broken mirror, the one that was shattered and I just kept looking at myself with my black eyes. The light in my irises is going dark as if there is no light in them anymore.

‘Do it.’ I hear a whisper in my ears. I wasn’t sure where the whispering was coming from. I slowly moved my head and there was no one there. I must be going crazy. ‘I know you want to be free.’ That’s true. This is a nightmare. I don’t wish this on my enemies.

But, what do I even do? ‘She’s thinking about it.’ ‘You don’t want to be stuck here anymore, right?’ ‘You’ll be punished.’ Wait, I’m hearing voices in my head - three different kinds to be exact. Two females, one younger, one older, and one male. ‘This isn’t your prison.’ ‘You need to be free.’ ‘You’ll be punished.’ The male is continuously saying that I will be punished.

“Punished?” The bathroom door slammed open and my stepmother walked in and grabbed a fistful of my hair and knocked me down to the ground, dragging me to the living room. “I am tired and tired of you disobeying me and messing with my life. Your father wishes you were never born.” ‘She lies.’ ‘She tells the truth.’ ‘Don’t believe her.’

She continued to drag me into the kitchen and pushed me into the corner of the wall. “You are just a waste in my space. I made sure your father was able to win custody of you so you can be a personal maid for my home. You truly do have a lovely father, ooh, I can’t discuss what he does with me, it’s gross to talk about it with you.” ‘She doesn’t care.’ ‘End her!’ ‘You’ll be punished.’ I stood up slowly, but she knocks me down again, some of the kitchen decor shattered after hitting the porcelain floor. “Stay down, you little bitch, and know your place.”

‘Own her!’ ‘Teach her a lesson!’ ‘Kill her!’ I stood up and grabbed the kitchen knife and with a lucky hit, I slashed her right in the throat. Blood was gushing everywhere, her eyes were wide, and the red liquid was choking her from the inside out, she fell to her knees, her back hitting the floor, dying in an unusual position. I dropped the knife and began crying. With happiness? With sadness? Not sure.

“What’s going on down there!?” I could hear my father shout from the bedroom. Panic and worry took hold of me. ‘You’ll be punished!’ ‘He’s coming!’ ‘You have to get out!’ “Crystal!” I took the knife and threw it in the garbage, running from the scene of the crime. I unlocked the door and ran outside, smelling the fresh air and not caring if there was a thunderstorm. I screamed for help and ran down the sidewalk, hoping my screams will gather someone’s attention.

Fortunately, it did. Mr. Greyson, one of the police officers in town. He was late forties, had side hair, was bald on top, a full mustache and beard. A little bit on the rounder side, but, you know, he’s a traffic officer, it’s not like he is running a SWAT team or anything like that. He ran towards me, “Crystal!? Crystal! What happened to you? I thought you needed to - “ His words stopped, and his shocked gaze was traveling up and down my body. “Oh, my God. Crystal, what happened to you?” I continued crying. “My name is not Crystal. It’s Claire!” The puzzled look on Mr. Greyson's face was evident, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. “I ran away from my stepmother! Look what she did to me!”

In a new identity, I sit in a room with white walls, a window was open with the wind blowing gently, playing with the sheer curtains. A brown desk was up against the wall with a mirror and a pen and paper. I huddle, blonde hair shielding my eyes from a doctor and my mother, and my stepfather.

The doctor spoke, “We ran tests on her, multiple therapy sessions, coming to the conclusion of psychosis turned into schizophrenia.” I could hear my stepfather grumble. “This is a nightmare. Crystal - “

I turned to him sharply, “Claire! My name is Claire!” I raised my voice at him. “I don’t want to go back to the house.” I hold a sob. “Please, I don’t want to use the bathroom,” I turned to the desk with a mirror, a little hand-held mirror sitting on the desk, “I want that mirror gone! She’ll come back to haunt me. That girl. She had brunette hair and she was dirty. I could smell the stink on her.”

The doctor filled in, “She is recalling Crystal, the girl who faced the abuse and underwent traumatic causes of stress. She also has Eisoptrophobia, which is an unhealthy fear of mirrors. The mirrors will trigger post-traumatic flashbacks to the events of the abuse.”

“I can’t believe she had to plead guilty in order to be entered into a psychiatric hospital, this is wrong. She is the victim, not the suspect.” I heard my mother. “Yes, but, she would be in jail if it wasn’t for these disorders.”

“And what of her father?” The doctor asked with concern. “Prison for knowing the abuse was going on and didn’t do a damn thing about it.” My step-father explained. The bathroom was taped off due to the events from earlier, looking in the mirror and suddenly getting transported to my memory.

I never wanted this to happen. I don’t ever want to look back at my reflection again, because every time I do, it will always be a person that is not me.