The Shadow That Didn't Follow

Standing in a dark room, I look around and find emptiness, nothing. Where am I? I turn and see a bit of reflection, a window, but there is no light coming from the window, just more darkness. I would have never seen it had I not begun tracing the walls with my fingertips to find where the walls joined, to find where they became corners. I wasn’t panicked, I wasn’t even agitated, but curiosity filled my insides. What was this place? I approach the glass and place a single finger against it, cold. The glass is cold. Is this how I get out? I trace the walls to find one to rest against, the wall that faces the window. Was it a window? I let my body slide down the wall onto the hard floor, and I rest. I have no memory of where I was before, and I have no concern as to where I am going or what may happen next.

I bring the same finger I have been using to trace these dark walls to my neck and check for a pulse, and I am alive. I can feel my heart as it beats softly against my neck. I count the beats, and they are neither too high nor too low. I am alive, curious, and in a dark place. I hear it and jump, a thud against the glass, like when a bird hits a window. I am standing, and with my finger still placed on my neck, I am now scared. What was that? I hear noise for the first time since entering the room —the thud, and now what sounds like wires attempting to braid themselves together. I hear the electricity waves. The sound is like when I used to need dial-up internet to play Neopets on the family computer. Something was coming alive. Lights.

My eyes squint as they adjust to the harsh fluorescent lights above me. I can now see the whole room; it's tiny, painted black, with a carpet that's installed in elementary schools, so basically, it's tile, and the window is still pitch black. I could walk from one wall to the next with less than 10 steps, in a very tiny room. I walk to the glass window once more and press my whole face against it, and imagine whoever may see me on the other side is getting quite the laugh. The cold glass stings my cheeks as I press into it with all my might, and then, I hear the electricity on the other side, because something or someone was alive in there as well. I hear the snap of the lights, and I step back, hearing my skin peel from the glass, and I see the same room I am in, and it’s just a mirror, because now I can see in the room, and I see only myself.

How underwhelming, I began to take the few steps back to the wall facing the mirror so I could rest. I reach the wall, slide down, and look up only to find that the mirror is not reflecting my actions. I stupidly wave my arms in the air, and the version of me in the mirror does not move. I stand still, and the other me remains motionless. Now I realize this is not a mirror. I walk to the glass once more and place my finger against it, still cold, and still the me on the other side does not move, but she can see me, I can see her eyes move with my movement. She is watching me as I watch her. Why does she look just like me? She then moves, and I panic, jumping back a step. I was not ready for her to move. She places her entire right hand against the glass, and I can see the lines that run through her hands telling a story. I lift my right hand and look at the lines that trace mine. Do they match? They don’t, slight differences, but different. I mouthed to her, “Do I know you”? She cannot hear me.

I study her. She has brown hair, the same as mine; she has a small scar above her left eyebrow from when I fell from the monkey bars in kindergarten. We are the same height, and our eyes are brown, with gold weaves; a boyfriend once said my eyes looked like forest fires. We were the same person. I bring my hand up and study the lines more closely, and I can feel my hot breath on my hand. I glance up at her, and she has not moved her body or hand; it remains pressed against the glass, and she too is not panicked or scared. I press my hand against the glass to copy hers, we are now in sync, and now we match. The room goes dark once more, and I don’t see my life flash in front of me, but rather, I see hers.

She is me, and I am her. I see my kindergarten classroom, the one I loved so dearly, and where I learned to read, write, and be studious. I see her, me, or us as we go into the indoor bathroom of the class. Kindergarteners had their bathrooms for safety reasons, and I walked into them many times before. I locked the latch and, upon exiting, I did not realize that my tights were stuck inside my dress. I know what happens next, and I can’t say or do anything as I am just observing. I then walk outside to continue recess, and the kids see my underwear and laugh at me. I know that as I laugh back and poke fun at the kids in response, I never crumble easily. I have always chosen to fight fire with more fire. I giggle as I watch because while this is a defining moment and core memory, it was just embarrassing and awful; it didn’t impact my life outside of its memory.

Now, we're a few years ahead, and I see Mom preparing for our 9th birthday party, and I know this is where it all happens. This birthday party is written in my bones. Right before my 9th birthday, I was diagnosed. Weeks prior, I was screaming in pain as my muscles decayed and my body ate itself from the inside. I know this birthday, I know the somber it brings, and I know how crippled and ill I was. I wait in anticipation to see you, and I nearly cry because I don’t want to relive this moment. I think I must be in Hell; this must be what it’s like to live the worst days of your life endlessly. This room must now be my prison. I can feel tears drip down my face, and I try to pull my hand from the glass. I don't want to see anymore, and I don’t want to see what happens to me next. I don’t want to relive the hospitals, the IVs, the drugs, the therapies, the grief, surgeries, and the sorrow. I can’t watch myself live through it because I have already lived through it. My hand is stuck and I cannot pull away, and I began to hyperventilate. I do not want to see the 9-year-old girl who is sick. I do not want to see the moments where my life was redefined.

I try to look away, but I am frozen. I see my Mom as she turns to yell down the hallway, likely at me, and I wait. I see myself. I see myself walking. I see myself smiling. This can’t be right, this wasn’t my 9th birthday, maybe someone got it confused. I was not well, and yet there I was, healthy, walking, and happy. I gasp. Whose life was this? I see the whole birthday party at a waterpark, my childhood best friend and I laughing, screaming, and loving life. I was both confused and overjoyed. Was this heaven? Was this the life I was meant to live? Was this an apology? The hand placed against the glass becomes wet with sweat and slips. Our hands fall together, and I see her or me on the other side, and I am smiling endlessly. What a beautiful life there was out there; some version of my childhood didn’t suffer. I look at her through the glass, and the same vein we share in our forehead is hot, pulsing, and she is crying. Why is she not happy?

I walk to the glass and try to tap on it with my finger, a silly attempt to console her, but I make the effort. She comes to the window and is mouthing something, but I cannot hear. I use my finger to paint words on the glass and try to get her to mimic. She does, and I begin spelling the words she is outlining against the streaky glass. Why is she so upset? She spells “I’m sorry”, and I scrunch my brow and raise my shoulders to her in question. Why? I spell “Why” with my fingers, and she writes back “I didn’t know”, and then, I understand. I saw the outcome of her life, her childhood, and her joy. She got to see mine.

My childhood was filled with hospitals, doctors, surgeries, and was overwhelmed with chaos. I didn’t return to school for many years. We weren’t just reflecting on our lives holistically; this glass was a mirror into one another’s life experiences. She never knew what the other side looked like, and neither did I. I prayed for her life, and she had no awareness of mine until today. How interesting, I thought, a bit of string theory. Doors creak open and we are released from our dark rooms, we each look back and mouth “goodbye”, and while she ran from the nightmare she just witnessed, I took my time to exit the room, still in wonder at what the remainder of her life looked like without the disease. I left, and I didn’t feel empty or sorrowful; I was so happy that a version of us out there lived what could be defined as an everyday life. But my story, her nightmare, I would never be who I am today without it. My version may have cost a lot, but I bite back.