BEHIND THE MIRROR

I have created a life that is entirely my own. Like a puzzle, every piece rests in its perfect place and creates the perfect image. It isn’t my business that every now and then the table that it’s made on shakes.

There’s a little coffee place on Carson Boulevard that I’m about to pass that I haven’t tried yet. I like the idea of cafes but they seem like an incredibly intimate place for strangers. Walking in one means that I have to put on an entirely different mask than before. I could entertain the effort of reaching across the void to understand someone else. I imagine it for a moment before letting the moment pass through my fingers. I will never wear a mask just to be deemed worthy of complimenting someone else’s.

Black boots scuff the sidewalk. My feet are heavy inside of them. I haven’t bought my own coffee maker yet so I’m tired. I won’t stop at the cafe. I imagine it’s a good thing in the long run to depend less on the caffeine. I used to love the taste of a cup in the morning but it’s different now. I drink it black. There’s a tangible bitterness that washes over my tongue and sits at the back of my throat. Having it with cream and sugar reminds me too much of the hospital and I won’t allow the memory to own another moment of my life. My mind is a palace of rooms and that time in my life is the unloved prisoner within a dark cell beneath its floors. I want to forget. I can still see them though.

I’ve been able to since I was little. It started by imagining a shadow man running beside the car when my mother would drive me to school. After that, it was little flickers of movement out of the corner of my eyes. Then the shadows grew more bold. They drew even close and rose up from the sunken black corners of my room after my mother shut the lights off for bedtime. I tried to tell her. I begged for help. She said it was something that every kid makes up so they don’t have to sleep in their bed anymore. That they were just shadows and nothing more.

The shadows didn’t stay shadows. He got a face and his name was Tom. Tom didn’t talk a lot. Not at first, anyway. His yellow eyes and teeth shone out of the darkness like sunlight but his breath smelled worse than the rot that gets stuck in the filter in the kitchen sink. It was so strong that I used to pinch my nose when I went to bed. No amount of holding my breath or pinching my nose kept me from smelling it for long. Eventually, I snuck one of the potato chip bag clips from the kitchen to use instead. It got me through the night but the odor soaked into everything. My hair, clothes, and book bag all carried the stench of decay. I was sent home with a lot of complaints during sixth grade so I got the idea to use the potato chip bag clip to clip his mouth instead. It worked so well but made Tom terribly angry. Every morning, the clip would be across the room in pieces. I had to shove them under the dresser to hide them since my mother would notice if they were in the trash.

Which is where I ran into trouble because as it turns out, my mother noticed anyway. Thinking back on it, it would have been smarter to lie about where they were going and what I was doing with them. Her expression after I told her what I had been seeing is a brand on my heart that marks me unlovable and renders me unwilling to tell my story anywhere other than here. She took me to see a psychologist who promised that he would help me fix everything if I just told him the truth. My second brilliant mistake was doing exactly that.

I’m sure anyone can guess what happened after that. No, it wasn’t the most pleasant stay in the world. There’s nothing hospitable about sleeping on a slab in a room with no windows, blankets or pillows for twenty-four hours. The room after that improved slightly. Tom became a comfort rather than a nuisance. I still smelled like garbage and couldn’t make friends in group therapy or speak to the staff.

That taught me the most valuable lesson of all--how to pretend. I learned how to function in society even after I began to see more. It isn’t exactly considered socially appropriate to tell others that their shadows have eyes and (conveniently enough for me) very chatty mouths. As if anyone would believe that they could tell you things--secrets. They told me a lot of things. They told me about a little black book full of important things that I need to find. They even told me about you, dear reader.

You’re coming with me on this little adventure. To catch you up on their message (I know you can’t hear them as well yet)--the cafe is approximately three blocks from the warehouse where the book is supposed to be. The smell of roasted coffee beans and bakery goods doesn’t overpower the rotting stench that covers me. It deters anyone from wanting to follow and messing up the plan. I may not understand everything yet, but I do know that absolutely no one can find out about this book.

Several people have crossed the busy street to get away from me. One woman even threw herself into a busy market, knocking over a crate of apples. I snagged one of them as they rolled by. A little bruised skin never bothers me. I walk faster now because too many people reacting to the smell will draw attention. Attention of any kind could draw me away from my goal. I can see the roof of what looks like the warehouse, so I cut across the alley and go the back way. There’s a disgusting rust flaked fence that looks like the perfect place to get tetanus. I slip through the side of the iron post where the fencing has been peeled back from previous hands. It’s not the best sign.

Ivy snarls up sides of the vacant building and shoves its green fingers through smashed windows. One of the panels is close enough to the ground for me to lift myself up and pull my body through. A dark grime grips the room inside, making it hard to see the floor and walls. The scatter of plastic chip bags and soda cans is a sure sign that this space has become a hangout spot for some kids who either don’t want to go home or don’t have one. I understand that well enough.

I wait for a moment, close my eyes and listen for any breathing or footsteps. Nothing. When I open them again, Tom is leering from the corner with his nasty grin.

It’s in the back room. Behind the mirror.

Even across the space of the room, I can feel the reek of his hot breath curl against the back of my ear. As I pass him, the shadows in the room curl against my boots like cats rubbing their heads against their owner’s legs. The mirror is wedged in the wall against some crooked boards. It’s coated in a sticky coat of hair spray that smells worse to me than Tom. It seems safe around the edges, so I pull at the side split from the wood and work it out of place. My throat closes. It’s an empty space.

Blood running hot, I look up at Tom. For a moment, I’m afraid I am crazy and that everything was just my imagination. He just laughs.

Almost there. Not quite.

I turn the mirror around to look at the back. It’s covered in brown parchment stapled at the edges.

There. That’s it.

It’s an encouraging croon that nestles in my chest. My fingers tear at the parchment, eager for more praise. For answers. There’s space between glass and paper.

At last.

Duct taped on the very bottom is a little black notebook. I peel off the tape carefully and grab it, pulling it open to peer at the pages. Stocks.

Countless names of companies, dates, and numbers. Entries about each company, when the stock value will increase and why scatter the margins. There are even notes about the darker side of things. Things to use if anything goes awry. I’m about to close the book when a slip of green paper peeking out catches my eye. I flip to the back of the book where there are twenty, fifty, and hundred dollar bills taped. Investment money. I flick through it, silently mouthing the numbers.

Twenty thousand in total.

I bare my teeth in victory at the dark. It curls closer, shadowy tongues lapping at my ankles in delight. I take a look at today’s date, pull out my phone and begin.

So friend, you’ve made it this far on the journey with me. You know my secret. You know about Tom. You even know about the little black notebook. They’ll tell you you’re crazy. They’ll try to keep you from finding out this world’s secrets. Let this be both a sign and warning--listen to the shadows, believe in what they say and don’t try to silence the dark with potato chip bag clips.