Inside and Out

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. That's what I had to tell myself, sometimes aloud, every time I stopped to wash my hands and face or try to clean my teeth. Truth be told, it had been so long since I'd seen my own face looking back at me, I was starting to forget it. Time passed, likely weeks, and the gaunt visage in every reflective surface strained to convince me otherwise. It said, "Come on, what other face could you possibly have? It's you and me, like it always has been." I had to believe I had good reason to deny it the first time and continue to deny it. It was the only thing I "knew", and to lose it would mean losing myself to that... house.

It was a house, right? I don't know what else to call it. The place was made up of familiar rooms, hallways, doors, stairs, all stitched together; but the end product was unrecognizable. If there was some consciousness behind the quiet chaos, it may have been working from incomplete information or fractured memories, secondhand ideas of "house". There wasn't time to examine the place from the outside. I was running, I thought I saw a house, and I went through a door carrying certain expectations.

As often as I could remember to, I would walk myself through the events that led me to that place. I was driving (I couldn't remember my vehicle) to visit my sister who lives in another state (I couldn't remember which state). The drive was long and empty and I had turned the radio on (I'll never remember which station). On some stretch of road that went on and on with nothing to catch the attention, wind began to rock the vehicle. The radio crackled a severe weather alert. I needed to find cover. And suddenly there was a structure to my left and a menacing funnel cloud forming somewhere near enough to notice. I ditched the vehicle and ran. A door opened, too easily, and then I was in a hall.

For minutes I called out as I walked from room to room, and there was no reply. For an hour I retraced my steps but I never found the front door again. For several hours I walked up and down and through strange shifting rooms. For a day or two I was sure I never saw the same room twice, but eventually every threshold gave me nauseating déjà vu. Sometimes I ran. That didn't help. Sometimes I curled up on a bed or a sofa or a futon or a carpet. I stared. I slept. I waited. I wondered and I hoped.

Everything familiar began to distort. The sound of my footsteps changed. The rhythm of my breath shifted. I heard my thoughts sound aloud from behind closed doors or whispering through the floorboards. "Look at your hands. They're definitely your hands. One, two hands. That's absolutely the correct number of hands." Did the thoughts really originate from me, or is that what the "house" wanted me to think? Either way, I'm pretty sure I've always had two hands. The thoughts can't all be lies.

Gradually, the house seemed to catch on to my distress. More rooms contained mirrors or windows to nowhere. I would open a door and see glass across the room, begging questions. Is my hair supposed to have that texture? Didn't I have freckles? Where did my scar go? I had a scar, right? Growing less sure from room to room, I stopped opening doors. The house adapted. Around each corner, each new hallway came with new glass. I tried stairs instead, up and down until my legs burned. When the stairs themselves became mirrors I lost all sense of physicality.

I screwed my eyes shut and shambled into a corner. Barely breathing, I tried to remember beautiful things. I remembered roses and sunsets and my mother's face. Did my face look anything like hers? Was it supposed to?

They found me in the remains of my car, a bleeding pile of myself. The wreckage was tossed nearly a mile from the road. It's a miracle I was found at all— a news crew in a helicopter happened to spot me on their way to document the tornado's aftermath. I'm very sore and very tired, and covered in bandages. I'd rather be resting, but I need to get this out while I'm able and in the right headspace.

The nurses say comforting and encouraging things, but the doctor gave it to me straight. There was a lot of damage. He said to prepare myself. I may not recognize myself when the wraps come off. He suggested I may want to avoid mirrors for a while.

Yeah. I might do that.