Mirror, mirror

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. The woman in the mirror had such radiant beauty that the glass seemed to fog slightly. Of course, it was just the humidity. Blood is mostly water, and there is an astonishing volume of hot blood in the human body.

The reflection was, as always, several hours delayed. The woman twitching on the stained sheets held only a slight resemblance to the tall green-eyed redhead with the to-die-for body. Literally, to die for - as she will, shortly. I have to give it to her - she fought for every second of her life, screaming, spitting, thrashing agains the ropes, but then she got weak from the blood loss and would only wisper something very quietly, looking at the low ceiling with those huge eyes of hers. I had to lean very close and hope she did not have to bite my ear off, but she was too far gone to move her head. She just kept repeating: "Mirror, mirror on the wall..." How did she know?

A fighter, this one. But then I almost gave her a chance. The one before her was amazingly flexible and I had such great plans for her, but she turned out to be unexpectedly strong and I had to resort to the baseball bat. Real ugly business, and the mirror stayed mad at me for weeks, refusing to show anything at all. Just a dark negative space, sucking out my soul. I had to beg and beg and beg.

In the beginning, the mirror was not so picky. The first one I simply pushed off the balcony, she was so drunk she pretty much jumped on her own singing "I believe I could fly!" The mirror seemed to like it - its sense of humor have always been dark.

Then there was the one that decided to use the lipstock to write her number on the mirror. I don't know what the mirror showed her, but she fainted right then and there and probably never even felt the knife the stopped her heart. I had to wipe the lipstick completely off before the mirror came back to life.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?

One thing I have to say - the mirror's got taste. White, black, asian, latino - they were all pretty. Some were beautiful and some were stunning. Fair is as fair does, I guess. Whatever that means, if it means anything. I don't think the mirror cares. If it does not, why should I?

The mirror does seem to follow some rules. All the women it showed me were between eighteen and forty, single, no kids, no close relatives. And lonely, they were all so lonely. How come these beautiful creatures haven't been surrounded by crowds of eager men, I don't know. Perhaps the mirror knows.

Mirror, mirror on the wall.

Once the mirror made up its mind, it would not budge. One day it selected my next door neighbour, the girl I saw growing up. I tried to explain that this was too close to home, that it was risky, that she did not deserve to die. The mirror got angry with me, and suddenly every reflective surface, from the shop windows along the main street to the tea in my cup showed the girl's face. I resisted for two weeks. The memory still makes me proud.

Oh, so back to the gymnast. As the mirror stayed stubbornly empty, my dreams first turned black and white, and then became flat and brittle, breaking into sharp shards that were hurting the inside of my head. I kept repeating the mantra, but it did not help. "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all? Mirror, miror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all? Mirror, mirror on the wall..." This was not healthy, and in the end the mirror had mercy on me and showed me the redhead.

The redhead coughed up some blood, and suddenly her voce became louder: "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"

And then she died. The mirror turned silver and then slowly cleared, showing a naked man holding a long knife covered in dried blood.

Showing, for the first time ever, my reflection.

This is not good.