My mom has always been a fanatic. Not in a dangerous way. Just… lost in her own world. She collects strange and antique things: chipped dolls with missing eyes, rusted music boxes that play off-key tunes, lace curtains yellowed with time.
I never understood the appeal.
But her obsession stretches into every part of the house — even my room.
Victorian curtains that don’t match. Heavy hand-carved furniture that leans at odd angles. Clocks that tick out of sync. The cupboard, overstuffed with cracked porcelain and things that feel like they’re watching.
But strangest of all is the mirror.
It’s huge, a full-length slab of glass and framed in tarnished bronze. Symbols etched along the border — some curling, ancient script. Or maybe just the artisan showing off.
Either way, it unsettles me.
Not that my mom ever notices.
I’m five the first time it happens.
I’m twirling in front of the mirror, showing off my new periwinkle dress. Laughing. Giddy. But when I pause – my reflection freezes a beat too late.
My heart skips. I stare at my reflection, hard.
I still look like me: round cheeks, soft golden hair, light brown eyes. But something is… off. Not the shape of my reflection. Not the way my dress swishes. Just… the feeling.
Like I’m being watched from inside the glass.
A chill runs down my spine.
I run to my bed, burying my face in the pillow. Count to a hundred, slow and trembling.
When I peek again, the reflection looks normal. Still, I don’t go near that mirror for weeks.
I’m nine when it happens again.
First day of third grade – I stand in front of the mirror, trying to smile. Trying to convince myself I’ll be okay, that I’ll make some friends this year.
But – the girl in the mirror smiles wider.
Too many teeth.
Too sharp.
Not happy. Hungry.
I stop smiling.
She doesn’t.
Her mouth stretches, slow and deliberate, revealing points that gleam like knives.
I stumble back. Blink. Hard.
Gone.
Just nerves. Just a trick of light.
Mom calls from downstairs, distracted and humming. I grab my bag, not daring to glance at the glass again.
I walk faster than usual that day. And I don’t look at myself in mirrors for a while after.
I’m thirteen and my reflection has honey blonde hair instead of the golden strands on my head.
I rub the glass.
The hair doesn’t change.
I ask my mom if we can move the mirror. Maybe just shift it to the hallway. She hums vaguely, flipping through an old magazine about antique auctions.
“There’s no space anywhere else,” she murmurs. “Besides, that mirror’s an artifact. It’s special.”
I want to push. I want to tell her how it makes me feel. But her eyes are distant, focused on things I can’t see, and there’s no use talking to her.
So, I let it go.
Sleep with the mirror in my room, though I pull my blanket up higher to avoid the chill I get from the mirror.
I’m fourteen.
The face in the mirror isn’t mine.
It’s too sharp, the cheeks too high and the eyes inky-black, bottomless voids.
I turn away. Wait a moment. Look back.
Still wrong.
I snatch a blanket from the bed and throw it over the mirror. My heart’s pounding.
Even with the glass covered, I feel the weight of its gaze.
I turn the mirror around. It takes all my strength, but I twist it until the reflection faces the wall.
Only then do I rest.
And for the first time in years, I rest easy.
Mom finds the blanket a few days later. She frowns, distracted, gently pulling it off with murmurs about discoloration.
“I just don’t want to damage it,” she says, more to herself than to me. She strokes the frame like it’s something precious, something to be treasured. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
I want to scream. I do scream at her. Bur mom doesn’t notice, just drifts towards the cupboard, dusting the porcelain pieces within.
Later, when she’s gone, I see it again.
The reflection smiles.
Long, sharp canines. Ink-black eyes.
Then, with a single clawed finger, it writes against the fogged glass:
I won’t hurt you.
I freeze.
Then another message appears:
I only want to listen.
Pause.
It’s so quiet here.
I’m lonely.
Something in my chest twists.
Maybe I’m pathetic, but those words sink into me. I’ve been lonely too. For as long as I can remember.
Mom always busy and dreaming.
Kids whispering and jeering.
Adults judging and avoiding.
So, instead of doing the sane thing and running or screaming for help, I sit down. And whisper, “Would you like to talk?”
I’m fifteen.
I talk to the mirror now. To it — to her.
Mira.
Her presence is like a pulse behind the glass. She doesn’t tell me about herself, but always listens.
People laugh at me at school. Say I’m turning into my mom.
I don’t care.
I don’t care. I have Mira now – the only one who’s ever stayed. Who’s ever cared.
Finally, I’m not alone anymore.
Sixteen.
I stop sleeping in bed. I make a nest of pillows in front of the mirror. I don’t tell anyone.
I talk to Mira for hours. About my fears, my insecurities, my wishes, my dreams.
Sometimes, she replies with a claw forming words in fog. Sometimes she doesn’t.
But I know Mira always hears me. She has to.
She’s all I have.
Seventeen.
She asks me to touch the glass.
Just once.
I lift my hand. A voice inside me — faint, weak — tells me to stop.
I ask, “Why?”
Mira doesn’t answer. Her eyes simply stare into mine, dark and unblinking. Then she turns and disappears.
Gone. She left me.
I collapse, hollow, like a marionette with its strings cut.
“Mira,” I whisper. “Please come back.”
Nothing.
I press my forehead to the mirror. “I’m sorry.”
Still nothing.
“Come back. Please. I need you.”
My palm finds the glass.
And something cold touches back.
When I wake, I’m sprawled on the floor.
My body aches, like it’s been dunked into ice cold water. My breath comes ragged and shallow -each one painful, like being dragged through glass.
I push myself up, knees trembling. Look into the mirror.
My reflection looks back. Not Mira. Just me - pale, shaking.
Alone.
“Mira?” My voice scrapes out.
There were no clawed hand scrawling words in fog. No too-sharp teeth bared in a smile, too-black eyes staring back at me.
The ornate symbols are dull.
Dead.
“Mira,” I gasped again, my voice cracking. No answer.
She was gone.
Gone.
She promised she wouldn’t. She told me she listened. That she cared.
But she left me. She left me, just like everyone does. And now I’m all alone again. And then—
Crack.
I curl forward, clutching my chest as agony blooms in it — not sharp like a knife, but deep, like something was being ripped out.
Something’s wrong.
I try to scream. Nothing comes out.
I look in the mirror. Mira’s still not there, but cracks spiderwebs across my torso like lightning. Skin splits. Crimson oozes between the lines in trembling, thin threads.
My fingers jerk with sickening pops. My hands twist and deform. My legs spasms and shatters. My skin begins to chip, flakes of flesh curling and falling like ash, clinking as they hit the floor.
I see myself — not in the mirror – but on the floor beside me.
Pieces of cracked skin. Spattered blood. Strands of broken hair. One glassy brown eyeball. A broken tongue.
I look down and see hands, pushing past the cracks in my torso, gripping the sides pulling. Ripping me into two. A broken, formless noises rise in my throat – terrified, animalistic – mouth agape in a silent scream.
Then — I’m looking up at myself.
No, not me. A beautiful stranger – Mira. Whole. Beautiful. Wearing my skin like a coat.
No seams. No flaws. Just better.
And me — nothing but broken parts. Shattered face. Splintered bones. Voice in shards.
She looks down at me, lips curling in a smirk.
“Poor thing,” she whispers. “You were always so desperate to be seen.”
She crouches; her eyes voids of cruelty and something arcane.
“You thought I cared for you. Fed me all your hurt. Your needs. Your dreams.” She smiles, wide and sharp. “But I was just waiting. I couldn’t come through until you let me in.” “And you did.”
Even my voice was now hers, sounding more right coming from her mouth than it ever did from mine.
“You were broken long before I touched you,” she hums. “Now, I’ll live your life. Make it more worthwhile than your pathetic one ever was.”
Then she stands. Lifts her foot.
I look through my fracture vision and see that beneath her heel — there was something red and still pulsing.
My heart.
The last bit of me. The only part–
Crunch.
Everything shatters.
Glass.
Bone.
Voice.
Me.