Mirror, mirror

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. But I knew that was the likely possibility when I purchased it. I had seen enough mirrors that only reflected my ugly mug; I was searching for something entirely different. I gazed into my newest acquisition after breakfast.

A young woman with jet black hair was looking back at me, oblivious that I was watching. She was touching up her makeup, but now and then, if I turned my head a certain way, or put a hand to my forehead, the woman would stop mid-action and do the same. Then she would go back to what she'd been doing. She finished, and her eyes went wide for a moment. Had she noticed me? That didn't seem likely. Nothing like that had happened with the other mirrors in my collection.

I put my hand on the mirror, and she did the same. The black-haired woman seemed puzzled at her movement, and pulled her hand back to examine it. Then she resumed her work, smiled a pearly white smile at the result and stepped away from the mirror. I think people tend to edit out glitches in the matrix.

And usually, it's just easier to ignore or leave the vicinity of a wobble in reality. But at the root of everyone, we know we live in a tiny bubble of spacetime. Remember the sentence cartographers used to put on maps: Beyond this boundary, there be monsters. . .

I moved to the left side of the mirror to watch as she went out a doorway. For a moment I thought I could smell a slightly citrus perfume. Nobody came in after the woman left. It was a bedroom view -- an ornately carved four-poster on the far wall, unmade, a big quilted comforter mashed up at the end of the sheet-covered mattress. I went to get another cup of coffee. When I got back the room was still empty, but much darker. It was still early afternoon on my side.

I moved to the right of the mirror and got very close to the glass, turning my head left to see into that part of the room. There was a window on that side, a cityscape outside the panes emitted a soft glow into the room. A thin figure was silhouetted against the illumination. The shape moved quickly toward me, the view blurred. A sudden, sharp pain surged through my skull, and I crumpled to the floor.

My house was dark when I woke up. It was raining outside and my forehead hurt. I put my hand up to it, there was swelling and blood on my fingers. I went to the bathroom to check the wound, but the mirror there had gone cloudy like the old ones do when the silver backing breaks down. But I could see a decent-sized oozing cut and crusted blood. I cleaned it up and plastered a bandage over it.

A crack had formed on my newest mirror, just a small fissure on one corner. But the scene on the other side had changed. The seller told me to expect this possibility. She said it was a Protean mirror, relatively rare in the collector trade network. But she didn't mention any incidents of violence associated with them. The age-old saying, 'caveat emptor', always held weight in the portal mirror business. There was always an element of surprise, an element of the unexpected.

The new view looked like a museum, a large, empty room adorned with lots of paintings on the walls. I went to a drawer and got my binoculars. I focused on a prominent painting, a fierce battle with horse-mounted warriors. A small plaque next to it was in a language unknown to me. Next to the battle scene was a more serene work -- seven angelic beings soaring over an ancient city with spires. A river meandered through the metropolis, a wide azure sky and majestic cumulus clouds begirded the posse of angels. Another unreadable plaque to the side of its large frame.

I considered surveying another painting, but just then my watch chimed. Time to get to work. I went upstairs to change and grab a few things for my shift, but could barely get into my bedroom. Pushing the door open with some difficulty, I saw that the dresser was partly blocking the doorway.

I pushed it out of the way and was surprised to see an ornately carved four-poster bed taking up a huge chunk of the small room. It was unmade, like it had been in the mirror, the big quilty comforter still mashed up at the foot of the mattress. I'd have to deal with it later, I was going to be late if I didn't get my ass in gear.

On my way out the door, I stopped at the mirror for a second to check the museum before I headed out. A small crowd had gathered, everybody was looking my way while a guide talked and pointed at me. A little old man in the front was peering closely at whatever painting was on the other side of my mirror. 'BOO!' I shouted, and the little old man jumped backward, knocking over two teens.

When I got back from work, I was starving. I forgot to pack food and the vending machines at work are shite. I went straight to the kitchen and put the kettle on for some ramen noodles. While waiting for the water to boil, I went to check on my mirror.

But it wasn't there. In its place was the painting of the flying angels. It was huge, it barely fit on the wall. I mean, it was a very nice painting if you like that kind of thing, but I wanted my mirror back. I wasn't sure what to do, so I went and made up the ramen.

I sat in the kitchen for a while, slurping red pepper noodles, having a think. This protean model was becoming an issue. I buy strange mirrors, not super-sized religious paintings. I had a sudden thought and finished up my soup. If my mirror was gone, maybe the four-poster had disappeared, too.

Something didn't smell quite right as I trotted upstairs, but I couldn't place it. The four-poster was still in my bedroom, the bed had been made up. Except for one thing. There was a long lump under the comforter. My girlfriend must've got back early from her business trip. I quietly walked to the edge of the bed and peeked under the covers.

I screamed the loudest scream I think I ever made and jumped back, hitting the bedroom wall. There was lots of blood. I was stunned, terrified. I started shaking uncontrollably, wanted to run, get out of the house.

'C'mon. C'mon --' I said to the room, willing my body to calm itself. I edged back to the four-poster, still shaking.

It wasn't my girlfriend. It was the woman from the mirror, her black hair splayed out over the pillow. Her face was distorted, painted red with blood. The ebony black curls were the only reason I knew it was her. I stood there, then puked up ramen noodles. I wandered out into the hallway, queasy, and got my second shock. Two angel beings were standing in the hall, looking at me with oversized radiant blue eyes, their white feathery wings shifting slightly behind their backs. One of the angels put up a finger and pointed at me. That was when I fainted.

I woke up in bed. My bed. The other one -- the blood bath -- was gone. I looked around, everything in my room seemed normal. Like it never happened. I smelled a rich aroma -- coffee and chocolate. I looked at my bedside table again. An oversized black cup sat next to the book I'd been reading, steam was rising from it.

I got myself upright to get a better view. Milky chocolate-colored foam topped the round rim. A white feather design was laced into it, like they do in the pricey espresso shops. I picked up the porcelain cup and took a tentative sip. Caffe mocha.

I sat on my bed and slowly drained the beverage. It was delicious and got my sleepy brain cranked up. The angels had saved my ass, that's all I could conclude. The silhouette figure that bonked me on the head had murdered the black-haired girl and then tried to pin it on me. The angels saw the crime and intervened, then cleaned up the crime scene.

This was the first time angels had come to my rescue. I'm not sure I ever really believed in them, but now they had shown up at my house, like they did in old religious tales and modern witness accounts. And they left an espresso drink signed with a feather. Thoughtful and caring. And a bit artistic. Like signing a great painting.

I went downstairs to get breakfast going. The angelic panorama had been replaced by another mirror. The one I'd just bought had a plain wooden frame. The new mirror was more nicely fashioned and carved, but it simply reflected my own image.

I've never really liked myself, especially my looks. I was too dark. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. Dark mood, dark thoughts. Worried that I had a dark soul. Some days I felt like a black hole that pulled all light into it. Light that did not enlighten me; my dark soul just used me as a funnel to regularly escape into another, more uplifting universe when it became bored with this place.

That's why I started shopping the fringe corners of the world for exotic mirrors -- I was looking for a better me. I had read tales of mirrors that could take your soul and replace it with another, if that's what you wanted, if you said the proper incantations while observing your reflection.

That made sense to me -- go to the very core and the outer layers would gradually respond in kind. I would flower outward from a newly planted seed soul. A soul made from the emanations of a lighter universe.

But in my quest for that certain mirror, I got lost in collecting. I was amazed by the niche trade in unconventional mirrors: mirrors that showed the past or future, mirrors that found lost objects, lost lovers, mirrors that spoke or sang, mirrors that trapped unwanted spirits or cleansed one's abode. They went on and on.

Of course there were a lot of charlatans and scammers. I'd met several, learned valuable lessons, wasted a lot of money. And you had to be educated in the use of specialized mirrors. Lots of reading and study. Simply put, I was wholly sucked into a rabbit hole of supernatural bespoke mirrors.

I was lost in thoughts of many mirrors when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and just stared at the person. It was the make-up woman from the mirror. The woman with black hair, bloody and dead in the four-poster bed. She was older though, her face had crow's feet at the corners of her amber eyes, a few permanent creases etched her forehead. Her hair had bright white strands coursing through the pitch-dark curls.

'Hello,' she said. 'May I speak with you?'

I motioned for her to enter. I was too confused to say anything.

'I'll go right to the point, Mr Lustro. Your gluttony in mirrors is creating a lot of disruption.'

I continued to stare. I saw you -- dead in an antique bed.'

'Yes, well, that's part of the chaos you're creating. But -- and I'm very sorry to say this -- but we've already confiscated your entire collection. We've removed one-hundred and twenty-seven varieties at your storage locker on Kastro Street. She looked briefly at the inside of her right palm. You can't have such concentrations of these portal objects. They start interacting with each other, causing myriad problems.' The woman rubbed her forehead briefly.

'Hold on,' I said. 'I've done a lot of research, I've spent thousands --'

'Mr Lustro. . . please, it's. . . it's no good making a case, the decision has been made. This bubble is already quite unstable. Surely you feel it yourself. . .' She pointed at my chest. Her index fingernail had a small lightning bolt etched in silver nail polish. 'In your core. . .'

I suddenly felt very nauseous. A vortex opened inside, churning every organ, every thought. I wanted to shriek, but nothing came out except for a mouse squeak.

'Sorry, this part only lasts a few moments.'

She took a small circular case from her pocket, opened it. Inside was a orange tinted mirror. She put it up to my eyes. A seething hole in my mind pulled me toward the reflection as it tried to swallow her mirror. My body felt like it was being shredded, forced through an excruciating mesh of burning, perverse desire. The noise was horrific-- like a million demons wailing in the underworld.

Suddenly everything turned into nothing. I could see clearly again, even though there was nothing to see. It was quiet. I felt okay.

The two angel beings appeared in front of me again, floating in bright nothingness. They watched me, said nothing.

'Where am I?' My question echoed into an infinite emptiness. The angels looked at each other, then turned their attention back to me.

'You will be. . . you will stay here,' one of them said. The angel seemed uncomfortable or inexperienced with speaking. They looked exactly alike; I hadn't noticed that when they appeared in my apartment.

'You might imagine it. . . it is a waiting place. You are. . . unanticipated. It is made for you here.' The speaking being stopped and the second angel took over.

'An error has occurred. It happens regularly; your domain is. . . turbulent. It will take time until a degree of balance is restored.' The twin seemed more experienced in conversing.

'Then you'll take me back home?' I asked. 'When it's been fixed?' The abyss we stood in felt both overwhelming and constricting.

The angels looked at each other. Their wings had fully extended above their shoulders, glowing, beating slowly.

One angel's head morphed into that of an eagle. The other became a black raven. Its wings turned obsidian, shining dramatically in the white nothingness.

'No,' said the eagle. 'Too much time has shifted there. A bubble has burst. Your world transforms every moment you are in this place.'

'But I won't stay here, will I? You'll take me to somewhere nicer? Another place like mine?'

'My sister and I shall go ask,' said the raven-head being. Its speaking skills had improved. 'We will return as soon as possible.'

'Can I go with you?' I was becoming very anxious at the thought of being in this abyss on my own. But in that moment they had already departed, two stars flitting away like lightning taking most of the ambient light with them. It was almost entirely black around me. Directly above my head was a distant galaxy, a small fuzzy spiral in an uninhabited eternity. An infinite universe of mirrors.