Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. Not really. What stood before me was a grotesque visage, a horrifying specter of what should be. The pallid skin, paper thin and filled with the deep crevices of wrinkles reflecting the unforgiving passing of time, seemed as though it was dripping off the bones. Eyes sunk deep behind the sharp edges of a brow bone, the emerald shimmer long since lost. The thin, patchy wisps of what was once hair the color of spun gold hung limply. A weakened arm raised slowly, as if weighted down by an unbearable burden, mottled skin covered the frail, skeletal hand that pressed against the glass. The mirror had become a constant reminder of the price I had paid. It wasn’t always this painful to look in the mirror. It wasn’t until the ravages of time truly began to sink in that the reflection became more grim.

***

I came into possession of the book when I needed it most, which, according to what was written on the pages, was exactly how it was supposed to happen. My world was crumbling. As cliche as it was, I felt as though everything I had was slipping through my fingers. The company that I had been working for since I graduated high school had to “downsize” because of a shifting market, and since I was one of two supervisors in the marketing department–the one without a degree in marketing–my boss made the executive decision that it would be better for the company if they held onto Ted as sole manager. As if that knife in the back wasn’t enough after almost twenty years of service, the real twist of the blade came when I got home.

Apparently, my early arrival home interrupted a rather exhilarating tryst between my wife and our next door neighbor, Sean. In one fell swoop I lost my job, my wife, and all sense of reality. Needless to say, the only thing I could think of was nestling my ass onto the well-worn leather barstool at Buggsy’s Tavern. Oh, did I forget to mention that I also lost my sobriety?

The sweet sting of the liquor burned for a split second before the warmth settled into my chest, slowly extending outward until I was wrapped in what felt like a welcomed embrace from a long lost friend. One drink led to two drinks. Two drinks led to three drinks. Somewhere around six I finally lost count. Some of the regulars at Buggsy’s nodded subtle hellos, but for the most part I was able to wallow, alone, in the depths of my self pity.

“What’s your poison? The next one’s on me.” A deep, gravelly voice knocked me out of my reverie as a large man, nursing a tall ale, settled onto the barstool next to me and threw a fistful of peanuts into his mouth. “I’m Jim,” he said, wiping the remnants of peanut dust onto the thigh of his jeans before extending his hand.

“Clark,” I said, shaking his hand. “Bourbon neat.”

“Coming right up, Clark.” With a flash of his hand, Jim waved the bartender over and ordered us each a drink. Much to my dismay, the onslaught of idle small talk began. Thankfully, I was deep enough into my drinking that most of what Jim was saying just listlessly floated in one ear and out the other. My eyes lazily wandered around the room, and an occasional nod of approval was my pathetic attempt at showing Jim I was following along with his storytelling. After a watered down final drink, and a stern look from the bartender, I knew it was time to bid adieu to my newfound comrade and make my way somewhere, anywhere, with a bed for the night. As I raised myself off the barstool and made my way to the door, I could feel my legs trembling, feel the room swaying around me. I braced my arm against the wall, closed my eyes, took a deep inhale, and collapsed on the floor.

***

Dappled sunlight danced across my eyelids, but the thought of opening them seemed like too heavy a burden. I lay there, head pounding, eyes shut tight, memories slowly creeping back towards the fringes of my conscious mind. I began to slowly flip through my mental rolodex: get fired–check; find wife having an affair–check; sobriety relapse–check; drunken bender–check. It was during this mental recap of the train wreck that my life had become that I realized I wasn’t alone. Something cold, wet, and a little rough, pressed against the tip of my nose. Slowly, opening my eyes and waiting for the temporary blindness to pass, I realized that what I felt was the sandpaper tongue of a large orange cat, staring intently at my mustache. It was then that I realized I had absolutely no idea where I was.

Rubbing the remnants of sleep from my eyes, I threw off the heavy blanket and sat on the edge of the bed. After the room stopped spinning, I slowly slid my crumpled jeans back over my legs and managed to slide my arms and head through the correct holes on my shirt (only took me three tries!). My clothes were thick with the perfume of liquor and cigarettes from the night before, but I knew I needed to bear with it until I could get home and get in the shower. A nice, long stint under the hot water of the shower would clear the fog nestled over my brain. Under the ever-watchful eyes of the cat, I remade the bed before making my way out of the room and down the hall.

The sound of crackling bacon and the sweet smell of pancakes greeted me as I walked into the kitchen. There was only one chair at the small table, but it was already set with a plate, cutlery, and a steaming cup of coffee.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” said Jim with a chuckle. “Have a seat and help yourself. Bacon will be another minute or so, but everything else is done. There’s some juice in the fridge if you’d prefer.”

“Coffee’s fine, thanks,” I croaked, my throat dry.

“Took quite a tumble at the bar last night. Didn’t know if you had anyone to call, so I offered to bring you to my place so you could sober up a bit.” Jim sipped his coffee and took the bacon off of the pan. “I figured after you got a little something in your stomach I’d drop you back off at the bar for your car.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ve been picked up off the floor of a bar plenty of times. I just figured it was my time to pay it forward.”

The food was incredible. There was something about a home cooked breakfast that just tasted different. After a third stack of pancakes and a final strip of bacon, I offered to help wash up, but I was shooed out of the kitchen. I sat down on a wooden rocker to lace up my boots, and the orange cat from earlier wound his way around my legs. His head nuzzled my hand, begging to be scratched. After a few tickles behind the ear, he walked off towards the kitchen as Jim emerged, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

“I see you’ve met Teddy. He’s usually a little nervous, but a few good scratches and he’s your new best friend.” Jim bent down and brushed his hand along Teddy’s back as he walked by towards his food bowl. “Just let me grab my coat and we can get out of here.”

“I really appreciate it, Jim. Thank you.”

As we bounced over potholes, the food in my stomach seemed to be making desperate attempts to come back up, but I was able to keep it down. Jim pulled us into the parking lot of the bar, before handing me an old, worn, leather-bound book.

“I want you to take this,” Jim said, pushing the book into my hands. “I bought this yesterday at a street sale by a man that looked like a wizard,” he said with a chuckle. “According to him, it’s supposed to help you when you’ve hit rock bottom. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you need it more than I do.”

I was too stunned to really reply, and I was afraid that if I opened my mouth my breakfast might reappear, so I took the book. Jim and I shook hands and parted ways.

***

I slid the key into the lock and turned until I felt the familiar click and the door swung open. Erin’s car wasn’t in the garage, so I knew I had the house to myself. I threw my keys in the bowl next to the door and trudged up the stairs. Leaving my clothes in a pile by the washing machine, I turned the water on in the shower as hot as I could stand it. As I washed away the remnants of the night, my mind began to mull over the events of the day before. Rock bottom. The lowest of the low. The place I thought I’d never be again after getting sober, yet I was welcomed back with open arms. I dried off, slipped on a pair of sweatpants and decided right then and there that I wasn’t going to wallow any longer. The first thing on my list was laundry. Wash away any trace of last night before sitting down to figure out my finances, my employment, and my sham of a marriage. Scooping up the pile of clothes that I left on the floor, the small book that Jim had handed me fell with a small thud. I dumped the clothes into the washing machine, poured in a little extra detergent just to be safe, picked up the book, and as the machine started up with the familiar chime and rumble I made my way downstairs and put on the coffee pot. I could tell it was old. A wave of mustiness hit me hard and each turn of a page felt as though it would disintegrate if I didn’t use the utmost caution. The first few pages were blank, but then I came to a page filled with tiny, immaculate, script. Row after row of names and dates, some dating back more than two hundred years. Each name perfectly aligned with the one above it. There were three pages of names listed in the book, with the most recent dated about a week ago. The next few pages were blank, presumably for the addition of more names, but then I found what I was looking for. Written in the same script as the names was what appeared to be some sort of poem:

In thy hands a source of great power,

found by fate in thy darkest hour.

For every soul who wanders lost,

fortune is yours for one small cost.

If thine heart or mind or spirit be stuck,

perhaps you need but a bit of luck.

A soulful gaze into thine own eyes,

to see reflected a cherished prize.

To make the cosmos bend and sway

will cost you nought but a day.

The larger the ask, the larger the cost,

but fear not for all is not lost.

Thy reflection shows the cost of time

while thy body preserves thou in thy prime.

Should damage befall thy true reflection,

lost shall be thy wished perfection.

Bargained power that thou have reaped

cannot be held to forever keep.

If a time will come when thou will crack,

the cosmos shall take its power back.

Bartered time is thine again.

Thy name be written at fate’s end.

Okay, whoever sold this to Jim was clearly a scam artist trying to cash in on people feeling down and out. I closed the book, poured a cup of coffee, and began updating my resume and hunting for new jobs. As the day dragged on, I found my mind wandering back to the words written in the book. I couldn’t seem to shake the strange feeling that had washed over me. Before I knew it, the house grew dark as the sun set beneath the trees. I washed out my coffee mug, microwaved a frozen meal I found tucked in the back of the freezer for dinner, and went upstairs, ready for bed. As I gazed in the mirror brushing my teeth, the words of the poem came back to me once again. Looking deep into my own eyes, I thought about much I just wanted my life to right itself. No, I wanted more than that. I wanted everything to be perfect. I finished brushing, washed my face, and slid into bed and drifted off to sleep.

I woke to the sound of my phone vibrating on the nightstand. I recognized the number as my boss, well, former boss, calling from the office. I almost ignored the call, but something within me told me I had to pick up. On what must’ve been the last ring, I hesitantly answered.

“Hello.”

“Clark, hey, man, it’s Jeff.”

“I know.” The disdain clear in my tone.

“Listen, I’ve given it some thought, and I was a prick yesterday. I never should have treated you that way. I spoke with the HR team, and I was calling to let you know that we would love to have you back. We would be happy to reissue all your accrued personal time, and I’d like to offer you an eight percent raise.”

“I… I don’t know what–”

“Don’t worry about it now. Take some time to think it over and give me a call back tomorrow morning.” With a soft click, the line went dead. I held the phone to my ear in disbelief. It was like I woke up in the twilight zone. I had to be dreaming. Or maybe this was some kind of sick joke, but I don’t even think that Jeff could be that much of an ass.

Confused, I went downstairs and poured a cup of coffee and cracked two eggs into the frying pan. The familiar ding of the toaster, melted butter on perfectly crisped toast, and expertly runny yolks tasted like absolute heaven and left me feeling like today was going to be a good day. My inner saboteur thought differently. Nothing is truly perfect. If my day was already off to a good start it meant that there had to be something worse on the horizon. Pushing that thought aside, I threw the dishes in the dishwasher and went back upstairs.

Leaning in towards the mirror to trim and edge up my beard, I noticed that it was flecked with gray. I’m not a spring chicken by any means, but I could’ve sworn that I was gray free yesterday. It wasn’t just my beard either. As I leaned closer I could see stands of silvery hair streaked across my head as well. It seemed as though the bags under my eyes were darker than usual, and the crow’s feet more pronounced, but I figured that was to be expected after my late night bender. It was odd. For a split second the haunting words from the book came back to me, but I quickly pushed them aside.

As I was coming down the stairs, I heard the sound of a key in the lock. The door swung open and Erin hesitantly stepped across the threshold. I knew that we couldn’t avoid each other forever, but it still didn’t make this moment any easier. I had run countless scenarios in my mind about how this conversation would go, but now that we were face to face my mind seemed to go blank.

“Hi,” I said tentatively. “Listen, I don’t want to fight, but I–”

“I screwed up,” she interrupted. “I screwed up, and I hurt you in ways that I can’t even explain. There is no excuse for what I did, and I’m not going to try to come up with one. You deserve better than that, Clark,” she stammered as a tear fell down her cheek. “You deserve better than me.

“Erin, I–”

“No, Clark. You don’t have to say anything. I just came to pack up some things. I’m leaving. No fuss. No fight. I’m the one that destroyed what we had, and I can’t stick around to keep causing you pain.”

It was then that I noticed she was carrying an armload of reusable shopping bags, and I could see a stack of flat cardboard boxes leaned against the doorframe. Despite how many times I had run the conversation in my mind, not a single time did it go like that. I expected a fight, or an argument, or at least some yelling, but I got none of that. No excuses, no lies, no gaslighting. Nothing. Full culpability. Bizarre to say the least. It seemed easy. Too easy.

“I’m on my way out, but if you’re still here when I get back I think we should talk.”

“I’d like that.”

“Hey, do I look any different to you?”

“Not at all. Why?”

“No reason, just curious.” With that, I finished pulling on my coat and I stepped out the door.

***

And so it began. I hadn’t realized it at first, at least not right away, but from that moment forward my life was irrevocably different. The first thing was getting my job back without so much as a bargaining meeting–and with a raise. The second thing was Erin simply agreeing to leave the house without any fighting or arguing. The second was the $500 winning scratch ticket tucked into the pocket of my coat. Things seemed to fall into my lap. For days it seemed like the world was just dumping good karma my way. People seemed friendlier on the street, there was always a green light just as I pulled up, my favorite rerun would come on just as I sat down on the couch. After a few days, I noticed more gray in my beard and on my head when I looked in the mirror. My face seemed more sunken than I remembered, but whenever I questioned it I was always given that same response: You’re looking good, man!

By the time I realized what was happening it was too late to stop it. Weeks later I awoke in a sweat one night, mind racing, and I began desperately searching my room. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for, but there was something inside of me, something instinctual that forced me to keep looking. I tore my room apart. I was crazed. I moved into the bathroom tearing apart the cabinet under the vanity. The hallway became a warzone. Three hours later, after I had turned the entire house upside down, I found what I was looking for. The book. I grabbed it, desperately flipping through the pages until the words of the poem were staring up at me again. With a newfound clarity I realized that this wasn’t a poem–it was a prophecy.

The more I reread those fateful words on the page, the more things began to make sense. Fortune had favored me. Ease and efficiency effortlessly commanded my every decision, but at what cost. The reflection in the mirror grew more haggard, more grim, with each passing day. There was nothing I could do to stop it. My life became perfect. Perfectly designed and perfectly executed, but I was paying the ultimate price. Living soon lost its meaning. After weeks, months, I wandered through a world which, in theory, should have been everything I wanted, but it was driving me insane. Every interaction became moot because it was artificial and formulaic. Even food lost all meaning because every bite had become bland with perfection. My utopian existence was nothing more than a gilded nightmare. The horror was in the fact that what I wanted most was the very thing that would be my undoing. I stopped working. I stopped eating. I eventually stopped leaving the house. I was trapped. The only sense of solitude was in my mind. The only sense of reality was in my mind. The harder I tried to convince myself to stay stable, the more unstable I became. A descent into complete and utter madness.

Looking in the mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. Not really. What stood before me was a grotesque visage, a horrifying specter of what should be. The pallid skin, paper thin and filled with the deep crevices of wrinkles reflecting the unforgiving passing of time, seemed as though it was dripping off the bones. Eyes sunk deep behind the sharp edges of a brow bone, the emerald shimmer long since lost. The thin, patchy wisps of what was once hair the color of spun gold hung limply. A constant reminder of the price I had to pay.

I stood as still as stone, staring blankly back at my twisted reflection. Knuckles white as I gripped the vanity. I leaned closer and closer until my head was pressed against the cool glass of the mirror itself. A slow exhale momentarily fogged my reflection. With a hardened resolve, I reeled back and swung my fist into the mirror. It happened in an instant. The cracks racing through the glass, the shrill piercing sound of falling shards shattering against the counter, a small trace of blood dripped off the end of my knuckle. As I looked down at my hands the skin seemed to turn to blotched paper before my eyes. Hair began to fall out, and my spine seemed to bend with a newfound fragility. I fell to the floor, brittle knees breaking upon impact. I was becoming that horrid reflection. The years of my life traded for perfect fortune suddenly came crashing back. I gasped. The shock too much to take. My mind slowed and the deafening beat of my heart grew slower and slower, I noticed that the book–that wretched book–had fallen open onto the floor. Before my eyes a new name appeared at the bottom of the list. My name. Clark Thompson. Next to my name appeared a date. Today’s date. The day that I died.