They say I’m mad, but I’m not. That woman in the mirror isn’t me.
Oh she looks like me, no doubt. Whenever someone is looking, she mimics me perfectly. Then when they turn away her blank expression twists into a malicious grin, she gives me a seductive little wink, and my blood runs cold.
I know she’s up to something. I don’t know what. They all think I’m mad, but I’m not. That woman in the mirror is not me.
I can feel the cold fog of evil seeping from the mirror in the night. I can hear her softly giggling. What does she do when I can’t see her? What does she want from me?
I can’t take it anymore. Lying here, straining my ears, trying to hear what she is whispering. I can’t stand it. I can’t take it anymore.
The rage propels me out of bed, I stride over to the mirror, rip down the sheet covering it, shaking with rage and fear in the cold fog.
She stands there, tall and proud in a perfect replica of my nightgown. Thrusts her chin up at me, a small smile playing about her lips. She doesn’t say anything, just gives me a look as if to say ‘What are you going to do? There’s nothing you can do, you’re powerless’
I scream, punch at her face. As the mirror shatters, I hear her little squeal of delight. Driven by fury, I hit and screech and scream over her laughter.
I feel the cold drain away, as pain fades in. My hands and feet are covered in blood, I’m surrounded by glass.
My housemates come rushing in and see with a glance the blood, the shattered glass around my feet, my tear-stained face. They see all that, but they don’t see what I see.
In the fractured mirror are all their reflections. But there isn’t one of me.
She has gone. I’ve set her free.
They all think I’m mad, but I’m not. That woman in the mirror wasn’t me.Follow Victoria on social media: