Hey guys! This is my first short story I’ve posted on here and well… Yeah, here it is. I am well aware it’s not greatly written, I’ve decided that my forte in writing utter crap about anything and everything, rather than trying to construct something. But anyways, here you go:
My reflection. The heart of the fear. My daily suffering. The eternal struggle of a phobia. One day something bad will happen, I know it will. I know.
It all goes back to my childhood. I remember it vividly. Walking past the mirror, catching a glimpse of something. Looking back and just seeing myself. I thought nothing of it. A figment of my imagination I told myself. And I believed it. Until that night. The nightmare. The first of many.
Staring at my reflection, paralysed, immobilised, unable to move. A figure, behind me, moving slowly forwards. Long, straggly hair masking most of the face; only its dark eyes are visible. Black eyes. Dead eyes. Closer and closer it moves, slowly, knowing I can’t escape. Fear wells inside me. I try to scream, but the figure raises its hand. Hushes me with its finger. It’s smiling now, as the scream gets trapped in my throat; Immobilised. Like me. The creature extends its arm – dead skin, burnt red – and touches me. I feel pain. It becomes excruciating. I let out a scream. And that’s when I awake. Screaming. On and on and on.
My dad comes rushing in. He holds me, trying to comfort me. My scream is drawn out, my eyes fixed on something. He follows my gaze. He sees only a mirror.
I see the figure, reflected behind us. The grin. The finger upon the lips. The straggly hair. And the eyes. The cold, dead eyes.
Several weeks later. I remember being taken somewhere. A shrink they called it. To be cured they said. Several long hours of questions. Analysed to the end of the earth. Taken home, told to come back tomorrow. At home, the nightmare repeats itself.
Diagnosed the next day. Eisoptrophobia they called it. A fear of mirrors. They are wrong. It’s not the mirrors I fear. It’s the creature inside the mirror.
Life continues. I get by. Trapped in a shadow of fear. The nightmares continue, always the same. All the mirrors have been covered up. They think it helps. But it doesn’t. I still know. Know that it’s still there. Hiding. Waiting.
Fourteen years old. Dad is fed up. Says it was a childish fear. Says that I should face it. He doesn’t know what it is. No one does.
He’s uncovered the mirrors. I screamed at him. He didn’t listen, saying it was time to confront the phobia. I can’t. I refuse. I won’t.
Walking past mirrors, not looking at them. Avoiding my own gaze. I don’t care what I look like. I can go without that. It’s worth it, to never see it again.
I’m seventeen now. Still avoiding mirrors. Still plagued by the nightmares. I even start to believe that’s what they are: just nightmares. Maybe I imagined it all. Maybe the figure is not real. A figment of my imagination, as I once told myself. I’m going to do it. I’m going to look in the mirror.
I wait until the night. Wait until my dad is asleep. Turn on the light, prepare myself. Tell myself that there is nothing to be afraid of. I take a deep breath. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Look up…
and see my reflection. Just my reflection. No figure, no nothing. Except me. I let out a laugh and blink.
And there it is. The figure. Grinning at me.
I try to scream, but she silences me before it can fully form. An arm shoots out of the mirror and wraps around my throat. The searing pain from my nightmare becomes real. I feel my flesh ripple. Then, I’m gone. Pulled into the mirror. Lost forever. Tormented endlessly by my nightmare.