My Turn

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own.

This ordinary mirror I found from the online marketplace, marked free, fit perfectly between my tall bookshelves.

The mirror’s size allowed me to see my head to my knees. It even made my studio apartment seem larger. Those home improvement videos were right all along. In the reflection, I usually see an aging man with stacks of books and unfinished projects behind me, a reminder of my many failed attempts as a writer, an artist, and a musician. But this morning, after a night of self-loathing drinking, I figured I would see the red glassy eyes to match the dehydrated hangover and messy hair with a long awkward angled beard from the previous night’s sleep position. The all-too-common reflection from every single mirror I own. Instead, from this mirror, on this morning, a vibrant, shining, tanned skin, clear-eyed forty-three-year-old man with suspiciously perfectly arranged hair and beard.

I think today, the planets have somehow aligned; I haven’t angered any deities, and the universe has sought to bestow pity and allowed me to have at least one good day. Even if this only lasts a few hours, the sight of whatever version of me is being reflected in this mirror fills me, right now, with the confidence to get my day started and grab a coffee from my favorite bookshop a block away. My headache is gone. I feel like I have energy. In the reflection, behind me on my loveseat, a set of clothes sits draped. I don’t remember setting out a bunch of clothes last night, but I see that even in my state of depression and widespread fear of not being good enough to sell any of my work, I carefully placed my favorite jeans and a shirt that I don’t remember owning. I must have gotten it from the thrift store on one of their weekend discount sales. The shirt felt good on my skin. It slimmed my frame while boasting my once toned and worked muscles. My boots. I usually have my boots staged next to my bed. A swift glance at my new mirror drew my attention to my dark brown boots reflected and staged next to my small nightstand table adjacent to the love chair.

The socks and boots fit comfortably, better than before. The ensemble felt new yet comfortable. I took one last look at my reflection and noticed a small outline slightly bulging from my right pocket. Reaching for what I assumed must be a discarded napkin, I felt the smooth printed paper of three twenty-dollar bills squished together. I don’t remember having cash on me last night. I must have taken money out just in case I needed it. The day’s sunlight was blocked by a slight overcast, which brought a strange smile to my face. I enjoyed the various shades of gray in the day’s sky.

The short stroll to The Broken Mirror Bookstore and Coffee Shop had me feeling lighter on my feet. I felt a few eyes on me walking past two small groups of people standing outside of second-hand clothing stores and one corner bar called Antique. One woman, a brunette girl next door features smiled at me with an almost apparent shyness. I haven’t had anyone look at me like this in years. Maybe today is just my random lucky day. I should text Brooke and see if she wants to grab a drink later.

The doors to the coffee shop side of the store gently swung open while I extended my hand to the pull bar. “Good morning, sir,” a twenty-something young man greeted.

“Today is your lucky day, sir. We have your favorite drink, an iced vanilla coffee with three shots of espresso, being made right now. We saw you approach and figured we would get that started for you, sir.” He talked with a smile. His tone, obedient and articulate, was slightly unsettling. I need to respond; I need to say something. “How did you know that was my drink?” I am genuinely intrigued. “We remembered from yesterday, Mr. Diaz. It’s not every day that someone orders a red-eye like that, and we take it upon ourselves to make our customers feel special.” His smile never shrunk. “Thank you.”

My eyes took notice of the waitress passing behind him as I finished my gratitude. She placed a cup of coffee on a table where two older men, possibly in their sixties, sat opposite from each other. The man facing me lifted his new, hot cup of black coffee and raised the cup with a nod, and took a gulp of dark brew. I heard my name being called as the next prepared order. The young girl lifted the cup and held it straight out at arm’s length. Her frame was petite with large rounded glasses. Her straight black hair fell to her back out from her knitted beanie. She never broke eye contact with me and smiled. I had to end this experience quickly.

“Thank you,” I said while gently taking the cup from her hands. “I really do hope you have a great day today Mr. Diaz.”

She ended her sentence and turned to prepare another order of overpriced yet excellent coffee. The open floorplan of the coffee shop sharply transitioned into the bookstore by way of color scheme and carpeting. Last week I performed a reading in the corner where the two stores met. Reading a chapter from my mediocre money-generating self-published book about monsters to a group of strangers drinking free wine and beer was the highlight of last week. Reading a few pages in the hopes that I grab a fan felt like I was pleading and begging for bus fare. I wanted so desperately for someone to be hooked to my words; I wanted someone to ask questions, and I wanted to sell a book. I should have sold the booze instead.

The bookstore, The Broken Mirror, looked different this morning. It seemed cleaner. Perhaps they hired a new cleaning crew. Of course, there was nothing wrong with the previous staff, but this one apparently takes pride in their work. The corner stage, where poets of great minds and master storytelling novelists have graced an audience, looked in perfect condition. I noticed they even upgraded the microphones. I looked at the spot where I read the most minor chapter from my book. I thought it fit well for an open read. It didn’t give too much away, and there was plenty for the audience to want more. A tap on my left shoulder broke my mental wonderment of how I could have done that reading better. “Excuse me, are you Mr. Diaz?” A sweet woman’s voice sang through the overhead speakers playing some sort of Lofi beat. “I am.” I reached out my hand for a handshake. “I came to your reading last week.” Her voice sounded appreciative, hitting soft inflections as she continued talking. “I just wanted to thank you, and I’m buying a copy of your book today.” She ended and turned to leave.

I need to ride this luck. Perhaps an impromptu reading? Something. I need to see if this truly is my lucky day. I can see an employee of the bookstore placing new copies of first editions on the shelves. “Excuse me.” I need to make sure my tone is soft if I’m about to ask a random request. “I was wondering if I could announce….” She cut me off with a sharp reaction. “Mr. Diaz!” Her smile was over-joyous and seemed painful upon her cheekbones. “Yes! You may use our stage; please go tell everyone that your book is for sale!” Ushering me to the corner stage, she announces for everyone’s attention. “Please, everyone, if you could all give me a moment of your time.” Her eyes widened, and her smile was big, exposing nearly every portion of her teeth.

Here it goes. “Hello, my name is A. J. Diaz, and I have a book that I’m currently selling on my website.” My words came from the diaphragm. I needed everyone to hear. “I have a QR code here. If anyone is interested. You can read a small portion of my book, and if you like it, you can buy a copy through the website.” That was all.

I held the business card out, the squared QR code facing away. I sprung for the 450 GSM hard stock paper with laminate, I could only afford a few of these cards, and I wanted them to last. One by one, with different makes and models of phones, customers of The Broken Mirror Bookstore and Coffee Shop were purchasing my book.

I must be in some sort of deep dream. If this is a dream, then I shouldn’t feel any pain. My phone buzzed in my pocket. The top notification read, “Sales Achievement.” I needed to test if I could feel pain. Digging my hand into my pants pocket, through the fabric, I clumped together a tiny patch of leg hair and pulled. I felt the follicles exit in a swift wave of discomfort, then the sting of pain.

This is unprecedented. For me, at least. I have always felt like those who are never deserving receive the best. Is this my turn? Does everyone get only one turn? I made my way out of the bookstore. I managed to step away from the now frenzy of people buying my book that I thought would die alone and unread. It was time to fully take advantage of this day. Rushing home, I texted as many friends as I could get a hold of.

I kept it as short as possible, “CELEBRATION! Party at my apartment!” I randomly invited the young group outside the second-hand store. I needed to make preparations. I am already getting confirmation.

I sat on a barstool adjacent to my love seat, which was drunkenly taken from one of my many idiotic escapades as a youth with no direction. I kept it because even as a barstool, it was comfortable, and I needed a chair at the time. I ordered food and booze for delivery. Invitations were sent hours ago, and the list keeps piling.

For once in my career, leaving my job for a passion, it is my turn. The doorbell rang. Quickly, I arose from the stool, and for a split second, I saw my reflection in the newly hung mirror. My head snapped an image of black sunken eyes, mouth agape to a full abnormally large smile, and shriveling skin around my face. My arms are fixed in a bent position. I opened my eyes wider and sharply returned to the mirror to see my face, clear of any horrific images. I must be tired. It has been an exciting day. Opening the door, the delivery driver placed tonight’s supplies on the floor with a note, thank you for the tip. Donations from my new fans started to pour in this morning. One individual sent five hundred dollars, with the message, had to.

Eight o’clock approached, and the first of the guests arrived. The doorbell rang. Through the peephole, a crowd has gathered outside my studio apartment door. Opening the door, in front of the line, was Brooke.

Her tall and thick frame made the vintage sun dress she decided to wear exaggerate her already beautiful features.

Her green eyes pierced through her Irish skin tone. Alongside her long red hair, she was stunning, and she was in my apartment. Until this point, she was simply a friend who supported me through my writing. She dated a handful of men; none were terrible, just didn’t work out. Tonight I wanted to try to work up the courage for me to have an opportunity to provide for her now that my luck has finally changed in my favor.

The music seemed to play in harmony with everyone’s movements. Food and drink passed around in communal offerings by random people, took the load off of being a host away from me. I talked to as many people as I could. Congratulatory sentiments passed my way as new notifications dinged my phone; congrats on 1,000 copies sold. Moments later, Congrats on 5,000 copies sold. Every new achievement brought cheers, kisses on the cheek, and then I caught the eye of Brooke. It was my time.

“I like your mirror.” She said, eyeing her reflection. I couldn’t take my eyes off her physical form. “Yeah, I got it for free,” I responded, looking at her. Turning to see her reflection, prepared to make a comment on how beautiful she looked, her naked body from the mirror grew an emptiness feeling of despair as hands protruded from the mirror outward along her reflected outline.

I turned quickly to her. My heart raced, and the nervousness of a lump in my chest grew heavy as I saw her fully clothes and smiling at me. “I do like this mirror.” She repeated.

Others began to turn to face the mirror. “Everything I ever wanted to see.” One woman calmly said as she pulled cash from her designer coat pockets. She held the wads of money and began to shove each individual bill down her throat. I rushed over and forced her hands to her sides.

She fell limp in my arms and smiled at me. “Everything I ever wanted and more.” She whispered continuously. I asked for help only to have one other assist me. “What is going on?” I asked in fear. “What do you mean?” A deep man’s voice responded. “It’s just the two of us.” My eyes darted back and forth as I desperately tried to gain my bearings. We were the only ones in my apartment.

I am alone with this man. I felt a cold shift in temperature. The mirror. Standing, I see my party guests; they are all dancing but in static motions. Their arms bend to awkward angles. A fog began to animate from behind where I stood. A hand reached out to mine, the dense black fog covered my floor. It was a heavy grip; I felt the crushing of my bones but felt no pain. “Everything you ever wanted.” He said while the fog consumed his figure. “I just wanted for it to be my turn.” I cried. Empty tears, void of sound. I cried.

“It is your turn.” The fog responded.

A wave of pain shot into my consciousness.

I am kneeling on the floor, and everyone is circled around me. They all stare and mock. They all point, “is this good enough?” They all scream over and over. “Is this what you want?” Each guest, former beauty of humans, point and distort. “It's your turn.” Their voices screech. “It’s your turn.” I need to scream. Nothing is audible. Nothing comes out. I need to stand. “I just wanted a chance,” I yell, but over the screech, I only hear the words in my own thoughts. My eyes focus on a dense black fog consuming those around me.

It’s too much. The mirror. Running at fast as I could to the cursed object and smashed my hands on the glass. I feel the warmth of my own blood beginning to run down my forearms. Repeatedly I break the mirror. Discombobulated voices and phrases race within my head. The screams of failure echo louder within my ears. It hurts. I continue to smash the mirror, louder and louder everything goes until nothing.

Silence. My eyes closed. I felt my heart and the pain in my chest. I am not opening my eyes. I don’t want to see what reality I'm in. I slowed my breathing. I felt with my hand a blank wall. Opening my eyes, I am alone. Beer bottles and empty cups are neatly separated on a table next to the kitchen area.

Lofi beats played softly. My hands are clean, no damage, no blood was found.

A noise came from behind me. Someone exited my bathroom. It rattled me. “Hey! Great party! Congrats on your success!” The random patron began to see himself out and turned. “I wish I was as lucky as you are. I am hoping for this new job soon, more money, you know. Oh, and thanks for the mirror!” He walked out. In the hallway, in my view, was my mirror, unbroken.

A notification buzzed on my phone. Congrats on 100,000 sales. I ignored it. Another message came through. A text.

Had a great time, yeah; I felt the same about you for a while. Congrats on your book! Yes, let’s grab dinner tomorrow. Brooke.