Spiegel

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
2/24/13 Freshly rewritten.

Submitted: July 27, 2008

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Submitted: July 27, 2008

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I recently removed my Mirror.

Honestly, I admit now that I had to. It was driving me insane. Quite literally, and if you do not believe me, check ----'s Asylums' lists. There, you'll find my name, my symptoms, my diagnosis, and prescribed medications. You'll find my address, the dates I was admitted, released and re-diagnosed and the several other medications given to me. Within all this information, you'll find several pictures of me as well. You'll see me before my admittance and initial diagnosis, my brown eyes bright, dark hair pulled back, my clothes of my preference: dark shirts with witty quips, as well as the tops of dark blue jeans that would cover my long legs and World Industries shoes. You'll see my transformation…the color in my face slowly disappearing, my eyes turning black with unrest. You can plainly see my witty quips turn to dirty shirts, disarrayed upon my figure. I stopped trying to dress myself normal after everything started. My final photo has to be the worst; my eyes have turned black, and now that I see them, they appear to have become totally inverted. My hair is white with insanity, and my face has become pale, drawn and gaunt. My god, I look utterly and undeniably psychotic. I might well be. And finally, within the massive folder beneath my name, you'll read the final date anyone ever saw me; you'll read the date of my tragic “disappearance.”

I recently removed my Mirror.

Perhaps, though, I should start at the beginning. Maybe you, my reader, will see what happened to me. Might I suggest you make yourself comfortable, turn the lights low and have some coffee? If I can manage to properly convey my story to you, you may not be sleeping very well tonight…

We go back a year or two, maybe three, I don't quite remember. Time in my “memories” has very slowly come to mean nothing to me; you will understand soon enough, reader dear. Back then, I assumed much, defied all and trusted no one. Back then, I put little to no thought into many of my actions; I did what I felt like. I cannot honestly say, given the circumstances now, that I wish I would've put more stock into my actions. Maybe, though. Maybe I should have.

I was ever so fond of horror stories. I loved them, lived for them, and obeyed their every word with uncanny, yet beautiful, fear. Many had instructions, others were just stories. I loved browsing them. Especially at night. I would turn off the lights in my room, put on music very low and begin my exploration of my personal Hell. I'd read many of these before, and for some reason, they'd always scare the living hell out of me. It never seemed to matter how many times I'd read any one of them, they lived fresh and bright in my mind. I pulled up my normal websites, and squealed.

I'd found a new one:

Grab a ruler and look in the mirror.
Easy enough, already done. The ruler was from my homework and my Mirror is behind me directly.
Now, grab something that varies in length. Your hair is the perfect example.
O.K.? Done.
Measure the strands of hair you're holding. Take note of how long they are.
10 ½ inches exactly.
Now look in the mirror and…

The rest became jumbled words to me as I looked up. 11 inches. My eyes went wide as I looked back down to the ruler I held and it still read 10 ½ inches. I swept back to the computer screen, panicking slightly now.


The lengths will be different. Look back down and don't look back into that mirror. Don't ever turn your back on that mirror again.

No. I continued to tell myself not to believe the little story; I continued to remind myself that it didn't really happen. There was no way that something on an internet forum, especially likethat, could be true. My mind was playing tricks on me, that had to be it. I was shaken, but I refused to believe in what I'd seen.I did, however, turn to where my Mirror was in my peripheral vision, instead of behind me. I didn't again look at the Mirror.

The weeks that followed remained almost entirely uneventful. I found myself locked in a desperate paranoia that lingered no matter how I tried to shake it. It seemed that every time my gaze swept into a Mirror, my reflection was staring at me morbidly. The girl that looked back at me seemed to be grabbing at me with her eyes, my eyes.

It wasn't soon after that that I feared Mirrors all together.
Well, no. It was not so much Mirrors, it was my reflection.
She wasn't me; she was…strange.

No, I would think to myself, rather annoyed by my reactions. That post got a rise out of you, and now you're feeding it. Enough is enough.

My parents watched me like hawks. I went out and bought myself plastic utensils, and refused to use metal ones. I no longer ate during school hours and refused to dress out during gym; I used only pencils, instead of pens. The ink could be reflective; I knew this all too well. I stopped driving my car, and kept my eyes shut all the way from point A to point B. So long as I couldn't see her, she couldn't see me. It wasn't long after my odd behavior began that my doting parents found it necessary to have me “checked out.” OCD, they'd tell themselves. Really, though, I knew what they thought. I couldn't stand to make eye contact with them anymore. The reflection, small as it was, was there. I believe it was then that something did snap in my psyche.

My first ever psychiatrist visit went far beyond awful. They never made me look in a Mirror, but they took pictures. The flash on those cameras…I wanted to murder them. They forced me to eat and even gave me medication to calm me down. "Happy Pills," they would say, moving the plastic cup every so slightly. I would swallow them quickly and drink the water with my eyes shut. My doctor diagnosed me with Paranoid Schizophrenia, making note of every “symptom” I displayed. He was a fool, though. They all were. I was given those Happy Pills to calm me and another pill to make me “normal”. Yet still, I couldn't look at myself.

Days ticked by, setting me up on a routine of over-medication and mild obliviousness. Sometime after the first few weeks, I realized that I'd not been to school for a while. No one had called, visited, or otherwise bothered to discover what had happened to me. I felt myself slipping from my own mind, and I enjoyed the sensation. I stopped caring about anything and everything, and, in a strange sort of way, I felt free. My tolerance, however, would soon build up. I tried so very hard to fight it, but as monitored as I was, there was no way I could maintain my “fix,” if you will.

Months went by in this fashion before I finally caught sight of my own reflection. Oh, how I'd changed. By that time, my hair was graying slowly, but surely. It began at the roots, and looked to be crawling to the ends, akin to a vengeful ghost from a horror film. Already, the dark brown was dying, and as my gaze shifted downward, my head fell slightly to the side. My eyes were changing, turning. The brown was getting darker, moving out my pupils which had failed to dilate. I stared for an eternity at her. She was going insane from my prolonged ignorance of her. Something snapped into my mind in that moment. So long as I drove her deeper into insanity, my sanity would undoubtedly return and my psyche might mend itself. I smirked, as did she. Her eyes though, they never left mine even when mine left hers. She was still watching, waiting…Whoever she was, it was safe to say that she hated me and would do whatever it took to remove me.

Well then, I thought as the grin curled through my chapped and thinning lips. Our little game begins, my well-equipped opponent.

After an easily won go-around with my own thoughts, I began to look into Mirrors more often. For hours, I would perch upon my bed and stare at her. Her gaze, ever-chilled with malcontent, never dared leave mine. I fell in love with my practice, and I knew she loved every second of the life she took from me. My parents, ever the image of attentiveness, began to silently fret. I was spending too much time alone, they argued. I had become mesmerized by myself, a narcissistic addict. And so, I was to be seen, once again, by the fool and his staff. They upped my dosages and added two new medications. The first was a sleeping pill, which I'd immediately begun plotting to fight. The second pill would spike my appetite. The side effects would drain me far worse than the sleeping pill would. I could fight sleep, but to ignore sustenance? I could not. My thoughts quickened in my ever sharpening mind. My normally feeble plotting turned sinister.

I grinned wide, and thanked him heartily. He was “saving” me from her. My parents placed me in therapy. I worked with a therapist who believed in hypnosis. "The practice is just that: Practice. We'll see if she responds to anything we say while she rests." My parents agreed to his bullocks, and after a short discussion, left their daughter with another fool. This particular fool, though, annoyed me far more than the others. He treated me like I was a child, and it escalated into the type of treatment a porcelain doll would receive from a loving collector. The others at least treated me like a human; he had no concept of my ever living nightmare. He was pathetic, but I agreed to play along.

Needless to say, my many nights of being awake and focused had left me entirely exhausted. It didn't matter how much I had intended to fight, I was out within minutes. In my subconscious, I met her with a glare so rotted, I thought she might shatter then. My pulse leapt when she failed to flinch, sending adrenaline rushing through every fiber of my being. She smiled like me, then raised her hand to meet mine, keeping herself steady even when I shook. We spoke in the same voice and shared the same movements. Our only difference lay in her glittering skin. As beautiful as it was, she was made of Looking Glass, and my flesh drove her to madness. She'd never be real, only a poor, pale copy. As it had so many times, my lips twisted into that grin.

His voice rang through our endless gaze as he asked me why I was like this. Once again, I grabbed the ruler and began my measurements. I chose the same side and amount of hair to measure, never realizing that I'd managed to pull some silvery brown strands out. When my actions mimicked the moments in which my panic sparked and exploded, I began to seize. The footage of our first and final meeting revealed that the seizure had come on so violently, he was not able to catch me or my flailing limbs as I bounced off the chair and onto the floor. Had the fool not responded so quickly, though, I would've died then. The ambulance arrived shortly after the worst of my seizure, carting me away to the cold confinement of a hospital bed where I would spend the entirety of a week and some.

The time spent within that blindingly white room passed slowly, but remained uneventful. Several hours after being rushed in, I was taken off me medication. It seemed the magical pills that were to make me better were reacting in unforeseen ways. In the end, no malpractice charges were to be filed.

"Lucky it was just a seizure this time. She could have gone comatose at anytime, and we're can't be sure that she would have pulled out of it."

My parents, stricken with fear, took what was left of my medications and chucked them. Shortly after they did, color began to slowly return to my skin as parts of my hair lit up with furious brown. My eyes began to light up with brown flecks, and my lips thickened. The time began to quicken, and my psyche began to put itself back together, bringing life back to the person who had vanished so suddenly.

By the time I walked confidently away from my horribly confined room, I had returned.

I was home for half a month, at the very least. Without warning, the symptoms returned. I became obsessed with fear, returning to my horror stories for a taste of the fear that she had instilled throughout my veins; I was frightened by the powerful longing to see her once more. As quickly as I could, I stopped eating, drinking, sleeping, living. And still, I had not found the willpower to return to the Mirror that faced my computer, the Mirror that I, myself, had cursed. I believe that some part of me gave honest fear to that Mirror, and that was why I could not return to it. That Mirror was going to kill me, and—in my rational, logical, reasoning hours—I decided I had to remove or smash it. If I was correct, she would leave with the broken slivers of her insanity. I knew I would miss her glaring at me with that contempt that might have buried me one day; I would miss her tearing at her beautifully colored reflective skin as she unleashed what only could have been deadly shrieks of anguish that I could not hear. However, I missed my sanity more and, with those thoughts in hand, I enlisted the aid of sleep and nourishment.

My parents picked up on my once again changing habits, hoping their daughter was returning. I had hoped so, too. My doctors wished to see me again, the Paranoid Schizophrenic case who they had failed to help. So, for the final time, I was admitted on the basis of a checkup. By that time, my face had become entirely blank and sunken in, my eyes having lost their flecks to a darkened abyss, blending pupil with iris. My hair was almost entirely an unnatural shade of silver. I felt that I had seen this color before –it was so familiar – but could not recall exactly where. They placed me on small dosages of the pills I had been taken off of. I honestly believed they would help my crusade against the Mirror. I expressed an interest in trying my treatment one last time, and the final decision was left to me. They reminded me of the previous dance I'd done with the combination, but ended on the reminder that they, not I, would be in charge of my medication. They would monitor my pills and habits far closer than they had before. Without a moment's hesitation, I was agreeing with everythi ng that was being said to and about me. I was released shortly after another picture was taken. They were keeping a file on me: The Paranoid Schizoid Girl.

I longed for my sanity by then. How I had missed being with my friends; I had forgotten them when my psyche broke the first time. You see, my fear was like a drug. I needed it to live. To obtain it, I had to go out of my way to make myself miserable. I couldn't stop taking the fear into me, and I couldn't give it up. I wouldn't give it up. Even now, I believe it was fear that drove me here. Fear of life without my drug of choice. No prescribed drug could ever provide the sensations that Fear placed unto me. Ah yes, my dear reader, I still do speak ever so fondly of that Sadist lover, Fear. I loved him more than anyone I had ever loved, or would ever love, in my short life.

The days leading to the end result of my master plan dragged on, stopping finally on a warm May afternoon. I tried to appear normal to my parents, and it seemed to work beautifully. They had begun to leave me home alone again, urged by my pleas that I just wanted to be a normal teenage girl again. I would take my medication when told and never tempted Fate by fighting back. I was the god-like child they had wanted, save for the fact I was out of my mind, and consistently drugged. It seemed like a small price to pay to have some sense of normalcy back, though.

And upon that warm, pure, May Day, they left me—once again—with only the rumbling sounds of the living room TV, and the melodic hums of the dryer in the basement as company. I stared, mesmerized momentarily, but the images on the screen of the TV, never truly taking them in. The noises blended into a static that meant only to taunt me cruelly. They hummed my name softly. Fate had arrived upon my doorstep just in time to witness my sordid affair with Fear. Oh, how Fate seems to wrench Fear from my chest, brutally removing his presence and love. Oh that wily lover! How I hated them, adored them, needed them, abhorred them.

My mind surrendered to the static noise as I wandered silently into my room. My thoughts sprang from my mind, not to return. I needed only to focus on my end goal: Destruction. Annihilation. Sanity. The room's temperature seemed to plummet as the door slowly shut behind me, a stark reminder that there would be nothing more than Fate's still, silently icy breath here. No more heat, no more artificial warmth. An otherworldly breeze played light on my face and racked my bones with a chill unlike any other I had ever felt. The Mirror. The Mirror was calling for me...calling.With grace, I floated to her, to him, to it. I floated to my love, my loathing and my addiction.

I stood before this plague upon my sanity, and questioned it. Was this really the beast that rained an acid shower of Hell upon my life these past months? Could it be that I truly had gone insane, and spent my time blaming an inanimate object and an urban legend on a website that thousands of people visited daily? Surely, there would be another example of a mind simply snapping, unprovoked, if that was the case. I studied the reflective surface only a few moments longer before my prying eyes caught her attention. She seemed to move completely independent of me, as if answering my unspoken questions with what appeared to be an inexorable amount of glee.

For an eternity, I gazed at her, brazenly challenging her to prove her worth whilst memorizing each and every flaw that could not help but to arise on a pale imitation. And, for an eternity more, she stared back, taking deep, long drinks of the moments of a life that she would never be able to experience from within the depths of my Mirror's glass.

Are you finally, truly and wholly, insane? I wondered peacefully and watched as she nodded. She smiled with sharpened points, the teeth I had filed down when my mind had created a personality so beastly, I could not contain every detail of their being within myself. In periods of damning darkness, my teeth had become sharp and dangerous, though I did not recall ever having done such. Those pointed, destroyed fangs gleamed and glinted, glowing from inside the glass. If she envied my life as a human, then this creature had truly driven herself mad; and, if she wanted my life, she'd have to take it from me. This creature though, could never take the life she wanted, and I knew that. I'd spent an inordinate amount of time in her head, as she had in mine. I never stood a chance against her, but I knew how to bait her into doing what I wanted. She was, after all, my reflection.

Are you going to take my place? Or will you shatter the second the Mirror does? Perhaps, I should destroy this accursed object and let you die inside my head instead. That seems more fitting for a pale imitation.... I taunted her, still staring. My eyes never left her's, but as mine became slits, her's widened. I glared at the creature as she nodded again before vanishing with that sinister grin within the cool, reflective glass. Seconds dragged on for entirely too long, almost lulling me into a false sense of calm. I raised my hands, clenching my fists so tightly my nails bit into my palms. Suppressing the shudder from my exhale, my hands crashed down upon her tomb, sending shards to the floor, silencing the creature who stalked me. The Mirror shards pooled around my feet, breaking upon one another, before silence once more fell. As if in slow motion, I heard the glass scrape upon glass as the pieces moved of their own accord, collecting in a humanoid shape behind me. She stood my height, though her arms were longer and ended in digits that broke when they bent. An unearthly noise fell from her reflective mouth as she breathed down my neck. In the few short moments that followed, I understood: my reflectionwasgoing to kill me, and with dozens of sharp edges and even more points, they'd probably never find all the little bits and pieces that was me.

I felt two “hands” grab my arms in a violent array of bloodstains and disfiguring wounds, slicing deep into flesh that suddenly lacked any bodily warmth. Her “hands” were not truly hands, they were shards of reflective glass, forged into thin fingers, though imperfectly so. I focused on the frame, which lay empty save a few sharp pieces still wedged into their place, and frantically searched for any viable solution. I had smashed the Mirror already, but I had failed to destroy the creature in the process. She lifted me by my arms, and threw me with what could only be described as the force of a thousand overly weighted vehicles into the frame. I felt bones break, snap and crack while muscles and internal organs screamed in burning agony. When I crumpled below it, her hands snatched me up once again, this time by either side of my face, her grossly long thumbs poised beneath my chin. I was vaguely aware of my feet leaving the floor as she lifted me a few inches above her own head. The velvety crimson liquid ran freely down my cheeks, chin and neck, coating each of the freckles on my face with the iron-scented nectar of life. A furious swipe of Mirror-shard claws rake across battered and torn skin, and with an involuntary cry, my eyelid was removed and my eye split, vitreous liqiudoozing slowly down my face. Flailing against her vice grip served only to send those fingers deeper into my skin. She seemed to enjoy using one of those slender appendages to completely severe the now useless organ from my skull.

Through my remaining eye, I watched the Mirror shards that was her face contort from what I assumed was absolute euphoria to a sick expression of blood lust, hunger and fury. It seemed that she was dissatisfied with what I could only assume she saw as “minimal damage” to the being who taunted her for months. A sick grin spread fast across my lips as I felt that familiar high of Fear pulsing through every vein in my body, frantically trying to spread blood throughout my body, causing rivers of red to flow from my face, body and legs freely. The creature sensed my death approaching, and she changed her hold, the shards of one hand wrapping tight around my waist, digging deep into my side, breaking the rib in her way and stealing the breath from one of my lacerated lungs.

Once again, she threw me into the frame, my body a doll in her hands. A groan tore harshly from my throat as I bounced off the frame at an angle, barely registering the sickening crack of my skull as it slammed through the computer desk. I looked up at her through blood and tears, sputtering a bit of the little blood I had left from my lips as I choked out the question "Why?" She snarled before opening her mouth and unearthing an inhuman noise, one that would prompt any man place a bullet through his temple. It rang out so powerfully, so loud that I believed my ear drums had exploded in my ears. The pain now was never ending, and she seemed to refuse to kill me, no matter the plea I used. For my dabbling into this world of Mirrors, Creature of Glass and the worst pain I'd ever been through, I just wanted the end. The final time she lifted me from the ground, I was nothing more than a battered, bruised and broken toy. Using two fingers, she tore open my throat, exposing the insides as guttural noises sprang from the now gaping hole. I was quickly running out of air, and choking on my own blood and saliva, and she knew. Lifting my soon-to-be-corpse a little higher, she opened her jaws wide, splitting either side of her glassy lips, latched onto a part of my tongue, and yanked. I begged silently for death, hoping it would be over soon. When she was done her work of mutilating my throat and face, she spat the pink muscle on the floor, and looked at me.

And that's all anyone will ever find, some blood and my tongue....

I was so afraid. And so high. The Fear that she instilled within my nearly dead shell was enough to make me high upon it. My sight in the eye I had left was fading fast as she lunged at the Mirror from whence she came, still clenching me against the sharp angles of her now blood-stained Mirror body. Together, we pushed into the frame. And just like that, it was over. I felt no pain.

I recently removed my Mirror.

Not so much me, dear reader. Actually, not me at all.

My parents are packing to leave this hellish dwelling. The last thing they'll take from my room is me, the Mirror. My parents are devastated, devoid, depressed. Their only daughter was stolen from them, at such a crucial age, and all that was left was her tongue. The strain upon the marriage has become almost too much to handle, and divorce papers lay on the barren kitchen counter. The only item within the walls of her bedroom that was not marred by her dried blood was her Mirror. It took them days before they could stomach the burden of having to call someone to clean the walls and replace the carpeting; I watched from my prison as team after team cleaned layer after layer of blood, hoping someone might glimpse me. No one ever did, though. They never found what was left of my eye, if you're wondering, dear reader. They never will. She took it as a trophy. They all have a trophy. Soon, I'll have one too.

From the house in which I'm now being carefully moved from, I'll be placed in some shop and sold fairly cheaply. Neither parent could bear to keep me, you see. The memories associated with me are too much for them to bear. But a new owner will soon be smitten with me. My frame has a few scratches in it, nothing that can't be sanded out and finished. And my glass? It's attractive to the eye, but somehow haunting. It always appears to be glistening, even through the layer of dust that sits on it now.

Soon, I hope to be bought by a woman who walks by my shop everyday, tightly clutching the hand of her young daughter. Someday soon, I'll catch her eye, and she'll find me 'absolutely gorgeous' and 'just so perfect,' and, quite pleased with the cost, will immediately buy me for her darling daughter. The frame will be painted a light pink or purple or whatever color scheme I must be, and look almost regal in her bedroom. And then, all I have to do is wait. It will be my turn soon....

Do not think yet, dear reader, that I'm not alive. I am…Trust me, through my battered, torn and beaten state, I am still very much alive, trapped and insane, in that Mirror. And the daughter…the woman's young, adorable, innocent little daughter knows this. She sees me at night, watching, observing, waiting. It's a game we like to play while we're trapped in these reflective prisons, waiting for the right time. Yes, We. There are many of us here, and our prisons all look the same to you. But to us, each is a unique holding, except for the one little thing that all here ache for; we thrive, crave and live on your Fear. It's power to us, it is the single force in the universe that can free us, but I can't tell you everything, reader.

One day, that woman's naïve daughter will be old enough to understand fear, and she'll stumble upon a website, while she's bored and home alone. It will be one that will take her world and flip it every way possible. It will terrify and excite her, disgust and please her... And one day, she'll turn to me, pick up a ruler, and scoff heartily at the directions.

Now, grab something that varies in length. Your hair is the perfect example...

And once she's begun to truly play our game, we get to experience the coup de grâce of our imprisonment:

Becoming human again. Yes, reader, she'll do just I did. She'll break the glass, just like me. And much like my very own mutilation, I'll leave part of her behind. Perhaps, I will leave her mother with her sweet young daughter's tongue. And once I have her safely locked away.... I will live again.

Oh yes, one day soon, I will be alive again.


© Copyright 2017 KyLin. All rights reserved.

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