My last day--

So here is a story from my new-to-be-not-my computer:

I remember the first time I became aware of mirrors.

I read a story, this harmless story, online. Just a few pages long, but with an idea I had never pondered before. Have you ever really looked at yourself in the mirror? Do you look like you, behind those eyes? Your appearance, sometimes terrifying, sometimes breathtaking, sometimes perfect, always looks a bit like a stranger.

Well, this story explained the perfect way to catch your own reflection - grab a single hair while looking in a mirror. Don't let go of it. Measure it. Then, measure the hair in the mirror. They won't be the same. But be careful, the story warned: your reflection isn't stupid. They will know, forever after this, that you know about them. You may, and probably will forget, but they won't. It's not a secret anymore. And knowledge is power. It's probably not safe, the author states, to turn your back on a mirror after they know.

A shiver ran through me, the idea frightening, but not scary enough that I actually cared. Until I got in my car.

Have you ever noticed how many reflections of yourself are in a vehicle? There are at least 5 mirrors in the
average car. One on each side, outside. One behind each visor in the front, and one smack-dab in the middle of the front of the car. The one that can see the back seat of the car. That doesn't even count all of the windows, which are reflective when it's dark outside. What does that bring the count up to? Ten? Twelve? You are surrounded by yourself. A terrifying thought. Especially when you're alone in your car, hurtling down back roads in the dead of night, the only light a distant illumination from the stars far overhead. And when you look around, the light from your headlights illuminates your face, reflecting in the window beside you.

Of course you've never seen the imperceptible grin on the face that isn't your face and the shimmer in the eyes that aren't your eyes. But they damn sure look like yours. These are small differences. Harmless differences. It's when your reflection doesn't care if you see it change that the situation isn't as harmless anymore.

I can't erase the day from my mind. The memory. The first time that the other me responded to me. She didn't mimic, she didn't copy, she responded. Backstage of a show, in the dressing room, the walls are mirrors. For makeup, and costuming purposes, everyone staring at themselves, studying their reflections. As everyone leaves to go on stage, I turned for one last check on myself. My expression was worried, but my makeup was done well; I remember thinking that I couldn't even see the worry lines I felt on my forehead and between my eyes. I put on a bit more lipstick, puckered, and straightened up.

Then she winked at me.

I froze. I knew I had to be on stage. But I froze. Staring into the deep blue puddles that I have grown so used to. And yet, there is a coldness behind them, a steel I've never seen before. My breathing was shaky as I brought my hand up to my face, straightening hair that is perfect. She followed me. I convinced myself, heading over to the stage. I shouldn't've turned the last time. I should have walked away and let her think that I was stupid. That I convinced myself of my own insanity. That I convinced myself I was tired, or stressed, or simply scaring myself. But I had to double-check. I had to be certain. So I turned to look at myself once more.

She was staring back at me with those same steely, cold eyes. Then, one corner of her mouth turned up, a cock-eyed grin, and she raised the opposite hand, waving slowly at me, one finger at a time, the movement eerily sensual.

I felt my eyes widen, my heart racing, my throat suddenly dry. Her eyes narrowed, her fingers wiggling, still up in greeting. Stumbling backwards, away from the mirror, I tripped, falling onto my ass, breaking eye contact with my twin. And when I stood up, it was me again. My face, white as a sheet, worry lines above my brow, and lips in a thin, nervous line. I did that show on auto-pilot.

I debated sharing. Telling someone. Anyone. As a warning, or an argument, or even just in my own consternation. But if I made others aware, they would no longer be safe. I didn't know what she had in store for me, but it couldn't've been good. I had seen those eyes. I had seen the expression burning in her gaze, blazing hot through the glass. She was angry and I had no idea why, or what I could do about it. She didn't move of her own accord again for a while. But her eyes. Her eyes stayed angry. Steely. Violent. No matter what mirror I looked in, I could see myself. Or her. And I couldn't escape her eyes. They pinned me as firmly as a stake, plunged through a body and into the ground.

I recall her growing more active. When I changed, she would laugh, quietly at first, slowly gaining malice,
pointing at her own pale legs, or her bare tummy, pushing it out farther and laughing at my fatness. When I would start my makeup, she would miss her own eye, marking her cheek with mascara. And I would rub furiously at my own skin, rubbing it red and raw. In places where mirrors were facing each other, creating so many duplicates of myself, they would wait until they knew I was paying attention, and then turn and attack just one of myself, beating this other me savagely as I could only watch on, helpless and disturbed.

The only reflection I could trust was my shadow, or the rare times I caught myself in a fountain, or a puddle.

I grew more haggard. Became unkempt, messy. The bags which were always below my eyes grew worse as my sleeping began to suffer. I took all the mirrors from my house, and covered the windows, but at night, when they reflected, she would tear down the curtains. And I would awaken to see her staring at me, standing up where I was laying down.I used to try to stay awake, used to be vigilant, arguing with her, trying to understand or help her through her anger. She either couldn't hear me, or wouldn't. I started sleeping in the kitchen, curled up in front of the fridge.

And then she found the oven door. I couldn't get away. She started to hit me. Or I started to hit me. It wasn't my choice, but it was definitely my hand. I didn't know how to make peace with her. I kept it a habit to keep things out of my hands, out of my reach, when a mirror was in sight. I began awaking with bruises, scabs, and blood stains on my pajamas. My lips had bite marks, my palms had fingernail marks, and my toenails looked as if they were going to come off at any minute. Every morning, they were more and more ginger, more and more loose, torn from the nail-bed a bit more.

Then I woke with a black eye and a broken nose. Nothing else was bleeding, but my knuckles were covered in a mixture of blood and snot. I guess you could say that was the point at which I had had enough. I made a decision. I had to get away from my reflection. Had to go somewhere that she couldn't get me. A place without windows, without any kind of glass. A safe place.

I pulled out my phone to call someone - anyone - to tell them where I was going. What was happening, vaguely, and what I was going to do about it. She saw me before I dialed the number, the touch screen black and reflecting back her eyes and mouth in a grotesque snarl. Next thing I knew, my other hand was around my throat, squeezing, cutting off my air supply. I dropped the phone, and to my terrible luck, or maybe it was all her handiwork, it landed so I could still see her eyes, glaring up at me. As my vision grew black, closing in around me, I kicked the phone away.

Finally, I could pull my hand away from my throat. Finally, I took a deep breath. What must've been simply a few seconds felt like days, and the air revived me, steeling me for the decision I was making. I ignored the bruises, the dull ache which filled every inch of me for the last few weeks of my life, I grabbed my keys and pulled open the door. I walked my carefully planned path, avoiding reflective surfaces as I approached my car.

I've lost my job by this point, but I had sheets and pillowcases that I used to cover up the windows in my car from the early stages of my torment. When I still tried to go out. I slid in the seat and turned my rearview mirror away from me, sliding the key home and cranking up my little car. The late afternoon sun kept me safe, allowing me to see outside of my car, without reflecting myself, or her, back at me. I drove.

I drove until I saw the sun dipping in the sky, tinging the clouds with vivid orange and red. I only wish I had
stopped. Taken time to look at it. Remember the colors, the breeze that tickled the leaves around me. Instead, I rushed. Away from cars, away from buildings, away from people. I found a hill as the sun began it's descent to the horizon, seeming to kiss the ground tenderly. I pulled over, getting out of the car and sitting on the ground, watching the sunset distractedly, pulling bark off of a stick in my hands, trying to imagine a permanent plan.

The beach. I always thought best at the beach, surrounded by sand and surf. The fresh, salty air, the noise of waves crashing, the sound of gulls cawing, the sight of jagged cliffs with a disbursement of scraggly bushes. I decided I was going to go to the beach. I stood, thinking loudly. I snapped out of it at a sudden, searing pain under my sternum. Finding it hard to breathe, I looked down, falling backwards onto the hood of my car in shock as I notice the half-smooth stick firmly lodged in my chest, my hand still holding onto the other end. As I collapsed further onto my car, I turned to my side, trying to pull the stick out, but it seemed to be stuck. My vision began to blur and I looked to my side, catching sight of my windshield. In the growing dark, she became more visible and smiled in genuine glee, reaching for me, forcing me to reach for her. My blood made the car slick, the loss of it making me increasingly woozy, and yet I still fought against the tunnel-vision which began enveloping me. As I touched the window, my fuzzy brain noticed the glass wasn't cold. I couldn't see anything, but it felt warm and soft against my hand, as if I were holding my own hands together. And then the world went dark.

My next sight is her. Standing, calmly, happier than she had ever looked before. The twinkle in her eye almost friendly and the smile on her face excited, if entirely smug. She reached for the mirror and I still felt compelled to follow. Her smile forced my face to smile. But my eyes? My eyes were pools of hatred. Of anger. Of resentment. Blue orbs made of hard steel. I know I could rebel. Could fight against her. But I'll wait. Wait for her to be unprepared. Wait for my time. For, I have time. When she isn't in the mirror, the only thing I do have is time. Time waiting in blank, white space. Space filled with nothing but my thoughts. And they have grown dark. So I'll wait, and think. And plan. I make my own choices and follow her as long as I wish. But when she figures out the danger I pose, I will make my decision. I will choose myself.

Because truly, we are you. And don't you have the free will to choose?