Disassociating Mirrors

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. It wasn't any one person's reflection. The smooth glass appeared splintered into a million tiny reflections of a million tiny fragments of a million different faces. The splinters both sharp and fluid as the mirror pulsed in something that seemed like a rhythm that I couldn't quite identify.

It was a piece of pink plastic no bigger than a plate. It had been adorned with stickers, and doodles in marker now faded. The intentions of a mind not fully developed. I don't remember seeing it when I first looked through the house. But the viewing was rushed, mostly because I didn't feel like I had options at that point. The housing market was so bad. Every house that I liked, sold before I ever got to see the listing. This was a boring ranch style, in a boring cul de sac, in a quite boring association. Not at all the kind of place that I had imagined myself settling into but it was available. I called, got the walkthrough, and made an offer on the spot.

I wasn't really looking at the house if I was honest with myself. I was looking past it at what I wanted to turn it into. Paint first, before I moved in. And then I would go room by room updating the flooring maybe adding paneling and in some areas removing walls. I could put a little bar in the family room in the basement and eventually an addition. My plans for remodeling had started before I even set foot in the place.

The last bedroom at the end of the hall was destined to be my office and the first room to get a makeover. I had called around and gotten quotes on flooring and paint. All I needed to do was make sure it was cleaned up before the workers arrived on Monday.

There were odds and ends throughout the house that I had assumed would be removed before I moved in. The Realtor didn't talk much about the previous owners and I didn't care to ask. So when I finally had the keys and officially took ownership I was a bit frustrated with the junk that was left behind. It was my own fault though for not making it clear that I wanted the place cleaned. It was too late now and the workers would be here first thing next week so it was up to me. Not exactly the way that I wanted to spend my weekend.

The room at the end of the hall was smallish. That was the main reason that it was destined to be an office. It did have one thing going for it, the one window looked out into the little garden and the little pond with a tinkling waterfall. I could imagine spending my days in there with the sound of water in the background and the summer breeze through the window.

The color of the room was disgusting. The kind of pink that made me think of heartburn medicine. Nasty chalky liquid pink. That had to go, and ASAP. The carpet too was a nasty sort of pink and was worn thin in areas. It was clear where the furniture had been. On the wall opposite the window had been what I could only guess was a desk of some kind, maybe a makeup desk for the little girl that had lived here. The pink paint had been worn away in places and when I looked closer I noticed that there were traces of writing on the walls. Crayons are not easily erased. I could make out a reoccurring sentence “I am Shelly?”. So I guess this is Shelly's room. Or rather was Shelly's room. It is my room now.

As I cleaned up I couldn't stop thinking about the question mark. Why did she write “I am Shelly?” as a question? I mean clearly, she was just some kid and kids do dumb things. I turned on some music and put it out of my head and got to work.

There wasn't much to clean until I opened the closet and boom, what a mess. Boxes and plastic bags, some loose clothes and lots of loose papers. I took a look at a handful of papers and there it was again “I am Shelly?” over and over. Page after page. Some in ink some in crayon, and some in pencil. No order to any of it aside from the repeating same sentence. Intermixed with this sentence were crude drawings of faces. Something about the vague distortions in each drawing made my stomach cold and cramp.

I decided to take this stuff to the transfer station as soon as I could. I still had some time before they closed so I loaded it all up into my car and headed over.

It felt like a funeral, putting all this into the giant trash compactor. I kick some random garbage on top before I walked away. I felt some impulse to say goodbye but I had no idea to who I was supposed to say it.

When I returned to the house I made myself a cup of coffee and sipped it for a few minutes before getting back to work on cleaning my soon-to-be office. I was thinking I should take the closet system out and measure for some new shelving. On the one long shelf in the closet to the left was a pink handheld mirror.

Without thinking I picked the mirror up and looked into it.

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. It wasn't any one person's reflection. The smooth glass appeared splintered into a million tiny reflections of a million tiny fragments of a million different faces. The splinters both sharp and fluid as the mirror pulsed in something that seemed like a rhythm that I couldn't quite identify.

It was a piece of pink plastic no bigger than a plate. It had been adorned with stickers, and doodles in marker now faded. The intentions of a mind not fully developed. I don't remember...

I don't remember...

A thought forms in my mind, slow like dew forming in the early morning.

I don't remember.. my name.

The thoughts flow like honey down the side of the jar.

I stare into the mirror.

I think...

I am Shelly?

Is that right?

I am Shelly?