Eisoptrophobia

As I lay in my bed, in my little box room, amongst the dust and clutter; I find my eyes unable to close, not for the dull stench of mould pervading the plastered walls or the stony mattress beneath me which pokes and prods my back with errant springs – nor the pitter-patter of winter rains against the windowpanes or the shadows of naked branches which dance against the walls like shadow puppets from spindled fingers. These distractions were not the thing that kept my mind gasping feverishly above the waves of sleep. In truth, I wished for nothing more than sink beneath the swell into that deep and dark void of sleep, where realities entangled themselves with the desires of the unconscious mind. Oh, how I longed for that sweet nothingness, but instead, there I lay; eyes bared wide against the darkness, transfixed upon the mirror.

It had taunted me since the first time I laid eyes on it, tall and heavy, propped up in the corner of my room. Its frame boasted its decadence, ornately carved with baroque patterns of endless floral spirals which dizzied your eyes with maddening repetition, the golden paint which once served to extenuate the wealth of the craftsmanship; now cracked and flaking, serving only as a reminder of its age. The glassy visage which was once preened and polished so as to only reflect the truest image of the richness before it was now mired by a fine layer of dust, the corners chipped and splintered, a fissure running down its centre – warping the reflections of anything which stood before it mockingly, as if in revenge for its abandonment.

I had spent many an hour standing before it, staring blankly into the reflection of myself, split down the middle by that ugly fracture. It was like looking at a stranger, a broken man, torn apart amongst the shattered pieces and clumsily rearranged into some foreign imitation of what once was. It frustrated me to no end, I would stare and stare, move an inch or two, observe closely and retreat to the fullest image possible and yet… there was no trace of me. This reflection, this other, which stared back. I could see no sense of self within it. I could raise my hand above my head, contort my face as strangely as a ghoul, kick out my feet and dance like a madman – it would copy my every move – instantaneous, dutifully, even mockingly. Yet it was not me. It was a malformed copy-cat. A demon disguised behind my face, my clothes and skin. The more I stared at it, the more it stared back at me, the stronger my hatred for the imposter grew; and with it, my terror.

The worst of it came when I realised that this stranger in the mirror had begun to escape the confines of my little box room. When everywhere I went, no matter how far and wide, I could not seem to escape it. The first time I noticed it following me was out on the streets, as I idled mindlessly on the edge of the pavement, waiting for a gap in the thoroughfare and simply enjoying my time away from that little room and terrible mirror. Through my absent mind and vague daydreaming, I found my gaze wandering to the ground before me. How I wish I hadn’t. My blood ran cold when I saw it, my back arched like a cat and the air froze in my lungs. That face, staring back at me, distorted and muddled against the rippling surface of a puddle. Mimicking even the timing of my blinking eyes so as to ensure that however hard I tried, there was no escaping. The only reprieve came by way of the intervention of bicycle wheels, slicing the visage of the beast in half as it passed by, only then was I freed from the prison of its gaze and there was no telling how much time had elapsed. Ever since it follows me everywhere I go. It hides in shop windows, lurks in the water, my shined leather shoes and the watch-face on my wrist. It stalks me through reflections. Bending its shape formlessly into every facet of my life. Haunting me.

Now as I lay here, in my little box room, consumed by the darkness of a winters night; I stare against the blackness, at the mirror, lurking in the corner. Grand and tall and decaying. I see it there, in the glass, lay in a bed like mine – in a room like mine – dressed in the same clothes, sheltering from the cold beneath the same frayed blanket. I wander if it too can smell the damp and rot? if it can hear the rain pelting the window? if it can feel the springs of the mattress prodding against its back? Perhaps its blind, deaf and dumb? Does it simply exist there, within its shattered realm, senseless… maybe it looks back at me wandering the same things? Why must in punish me with its distortion? This malformation I have come to hate, this other me in the mirror which isn’t me at all, this ugly imitation; bastardised and ungodly and evil and broken. I must kill it. Slaughter the beast I see looking back at me, return my own reflection to myself – completed, whole, unbroken.

I find myself standing against it, nose to nose, its hollow eyes met with mine. The bookend in my hand feels heavy, cold, metallic. I see it has one of its own and know that I must strike first, I rear it back above my head and see the rage in its eyes before thrusting it forward with all my might.

Cautiously, my eyes open, the stagnant air feels heavy in my lungs as I breathe fear laden breaths. I feel the sting of shattered glass beneath my feet, I’m bleeding. The victory of seeing nothing but the bared, wooden backing of the mirror dulls the pain. The bookend falls to the floor with a clunk as the satisfaction of freedom washes over me. I look to my bleeding feet, a menagerie of glass shards surround them, long as knives and just as sharp and… It’s face lives within each and every one of them. A thousand distorted reflections looking back at me, only this time, each and every one is smiling at me.