The Cursed Mirror

The landscape of my life is dictated by one sole factor.

It has been since that day, many moons ago now, when I stepped outside of my seaside cottage to find the shore covered in fractals of broken glass. A cracked golden mirror lay amidst the crashing tide.

I, foolish as I was, bent to pick it up.

I stare at it now, its ornate frame decorating the space above my dresser. I throw a hairbrush at the mangled surface, watching it shudder before returning to its original distorted reflection. Even after countless attempts of trying to remove it, it still hasn’t relinquished its position on my wall.

I sigh at the sound of my kettle shrieking and trudge towards my kitchen. I pour its contents into a teacup, flinching when a drop of hot water jumps onto my hand, and lift my gaze out the window into the reality outside of my cottage.

The air surrounding my coastal home is warped and hazy, a swirl of wind that engulfs the cottage from all sides. A barrier that I have learned, through unpleasant experiences, is impenetrable. Nothing has come in or out since the day the cyclone formed.

The storm that created it was the last thing I remembered before waking up in my newly frozen cage, staring at its creator mounted on the wall opposite me.

It’s safe to say this isn’t what I signed up for.

I drop a cube of sugar in my tea, and then sit down at my kitchen table. I allow my eyes to skim, for the thousandth time, my artwork plastered on the walls. My gaze lands on a portrait of me and my mother and I quickly look away, casting aside the sinking feeling in my gut.

I take another sip from my teacup, and then reach for the journal across the table from me.

Day 1896: Today my tea burned me.

I’m interrupted by a knock at the door.

I’m interrupted by a knock at the door?

I stand up so fast that my chair clatters to the floor. I rush over to yank open the door, which swings to reveal a person standing in my doorway.

“Hello, are you Annabelle Gates?” He asks.

I actually stumble back out of pure shock. Just the sight of another person after so long has me grasping for the back of my chair, which, in forgetting it fell over, I then trip over. The stranger looks alarmed.

“Ma’am? Are you ok?” He was wearing a jacket with the word Collector inscribed on the breast pocket, and holding a notepad.

“What, how, who are you? How did you get here?” I point to the cyclone outside of my house. He looks behind his shoulder, as if only now noticing it.

“I’m with the Guild of Curses. I believe that for the past five years you have had in your possession a mirror on the Cursed Items Register, and I am here to collect it.” He strode past me in a business like manner, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary.

“Where is it?” He asks. I point, agape, to the door of my room.

We both enter to find the mirror hanging above the dresser, right where I left it. The man crosses his arms and surveys it.

“Excuse me, who are you? What is the Guild of Curses? How did this just wind up on the beach outside of my house?” I interrogate him.

“My name is Julian, and I’m employed by the Guild of Curses, an organization dedicated to protecting and preserving cursed items. A few years back there was a chaotic mixup, and it seems this mirror somehow ended up in your possession. We’ve only tracked it down now.” He scratches the back of his head, “I’m guessing it can’t come off?”

I nod.

He sighs. “I was afraid of that. Okay, I am going to have to go back to the guild and find its key.” He turns to leave.

“Wait!” I grab his arm, “What do you mean its key? Wherever you’re going, you’re taking me with you.”

He yanks his elbow free from me. “The key to unlock its curse. And no, you are definitely not coming with me.”

“Excuse me sir, but have you ever been trapped in a house for five years?” I demand. He pauses, looking uncertain.

“Um, no.”

“Well, I have. And you have no idea what it’s like, not seeing your loved ones for so long,” I point to a picture of me and my mom, our blonde heads tilted towards each other. I ignore that same uneasy feeling that rises in my stomach. “So if I am able to leave, then you better believe that I’m getting out of here.”

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. After a moment he looks up.

“Fine,” He sighs, “But you have to do exactly what I tell you.”

“Done.” I smile.

A minute later, we’re standing knee deep in the ocean outside. Julian, with no warning, had whipped out some sort of blade that cut a path through the cyclone to the shore.

“Now what?” I ask him.

“Just wait.” He stares straight ahead.

I watch in shock as a door emerges from the water. It’s decorated in gold flakes and strings of pearls that dangle off its edges. Julian turns the handle to reveal nothing but a glow on the other side.

“You have to just walk straight in, no fear, and it will bring you there.” He says.

I watch him step through, and then reluctantly follow him.

A second later I’m in the largest building I have ever seen.

A glass dome encases the large room, bustling with people and what looks like ivy growing from the ceiling to the walls. A cacophony of sounds ricochets around the room, giving it a chaotic air.

“What is this?”

“Our headquarters. Follow me.” I trip after him as he strides to a heavy wooden door a little ways away.

“This is where the key should be.” He twists the gold knob.

The room beyond is flooded in artwork: canvases hanging from the ceiling, paper mache statues, clay creations and the odd hand turkey. With a start I realize I recognize all of them.

“This is my artwork.” I say in awe.

Julian looks back at me. “Really?”

I step back to take in a painting I made when I was what? Thirteen? Twelve?

“Yeah,” I say, “I’m an artist. I haven’t painted for years though, I ran out of supplies.” I reach out and touch the painting, memories of smeared, swirling colours crowding my mind. It’s been so long.

“Huh.” He looks around, “These are really good.”

“How did they get here?” I ask him.

“I don’t really know how to explain it, but you can find things linked to the mirror here. Were you thinking of painting when you found it?”

“Not really. Well..” I pause, unsure, “I had a massive fight with my mom the night before, I told her I was quitting college to become a full time painter. She was mad and said she didn’t want her daughter to become a failed artist, so I guess I was thinking about that.” I swallowed. After five years the anger had dulled, but I still refused to let myself think about how she hadn’t believed in me.

“Then that’s how. C’mon, we have to keep going.” He motions for me to go with him. I swerve around stray pieces of artwork and follow him to the end of the hall, which leads to another door.

The next room is a wasteland of broken glass. But the pieces aren't small, they’re massive: around the length of my body and very thick. Light refracts through the glass, casting beams around the room.

“What’s this room?” I turn to Julian.

“Hmm,” He walks towards the center of the floor, weaving around the pieces of broken glass, “Oh. It’s a clock.”

I join him in the center to see that the floor is actually the face of a ginormous clock, its massive hands barely a few centimeters off the ground.

“Lost time.” Julian murmurs. The hands don’t move, the room remains completely silent.

I exhale. I don’t understand where this is going.

“Look.” Julian points to a single painting across the room, at the head of the twelve o’clock point.

I inch towards it carefully, and then come to a complete stop when I take in the scene.

Trapped inside the plain wooden frame is a watercolour painting. A woman stands on the beach, her head of blonde curls bent low as she reaches to pick up something. The mirror.

It’s me.

On the base of the frame is the title of the piece: The First Key: Anger.

If this painting is of me, does that mean I was the key? Was I anger?

I hear Julian come up behind me. “Annabelle, I’m sorry, but I think you were the one who unlocked the curse. Some cursed items need an activator, and in this case it seems like it was your anger towards your mother that caused it.” I barely register the hand that he places on my shoulder.

I was haunted by that night like you are by a childhood nightmare. The anger and betrayal I had felt from thinking that my mother didn’t believe in me used to be blinding hot, but by now had dulled. Years of isolation made me realize I was living the exact life she hadn’t wanted for me: being trapped, unhappy, and unable to get out. She had thought college was my mirror’s key, I thought art was.

“Let’s go.” I say, my throat dry.

Julian nods a little solemnly and we turn to the next door on the opposite side of the room.

“This should be the last one.” He says. We step through supposedly the final wooden door, where we are met only with darkness.

“Huh? What’s going on?” I swivel my head around, looking for Julian.

“I don’t know.” I hear his voice from somewhere to the right of me.

Suddenly a light appears at the end of the room. I step closer to see a glowing script in the process of writing itself.

The Last Key: Forgiveness.

Forgiveness. I was the first key, and I realize now that I am the last one too.

Suddenly the room floods with light. I blink my eyes against the sudden harshness to find myself back in my coastal cottage, standing in my bedroom.

The mirror, its surface smooth and umaimed, is mounted underneath the scrawling script.

“How…” I trail off.

“Touch it.” Julian says.

I walk over to the mirror and place the pad of my finger on its surface. The glass ripples lightly like the waters outside my home.

I look back at Julian.

“You have to just walk straight in, no fear, and it will bring you there.” He smiles, repeating what he had said to me before.

“Goodbye, Julian. Thank you.”

“Goodbye, Annabelle. It’s time to go home.”

Knowing what I have to do, I step straight through the glass, home to my mother.