Covered Mirror
I covered the bedroom mirror because I kept waking up to my reflection standing beside the bed.
This morning the sheet was still covering the mirror, but there were footprints leading away from it.
Fear of mirrors or one’s reflection.
I covered the bedroom mirror because I kept waking up to my reflection standing beside the bed.
This morning the sheet was still covering the mirror, but there were footprints leading away from it.
My reflection smiled before I did, so I smashed the bathroom mirror.
Every shard showed me standing behind myself.
The fitting-room mirror made me look thinner, younger, and strangely happy.
When I stepped away, the better version of me stayed behind and started pounding on the glass.
I adjusted the rearview mirror and saw a child sitting in the back seat.
When I turned around the seat was empty, but the mirror showed him climbing into the front.
My bathroom reflection has started copying me half a second too late.
This morning it finished shaving before I picked up the razor.
I saw my wife smiling at me in the rearview mirror during the drive home.
She had been asleep in the passenger seat for twenty minutes.
The antique mirror reflects a room almost identical to mine except for one extra door.
Tonight that door is open and my reflection is standing in it.
After my shower, words appeared in the fogged mirror telling me not to turn around.
The handwriting matched the message carved into the back of the glass.
The dentist’s little mirror showed a blinking eye behind my back molar.
He put down the instrument and asked me how long it had been awake.
The elevator mirror showed one more passenger than the security camera did.
When the doors opened, the extra reflection stepped out first.
My laptop screen went black and reflected someone leaning over my shoulder.
When the display came back, the reflection stayed.
I woke to find HELP ME written backward across the bedroom mirror.
My reflection was still asleep.
The department-store mirror made every shopper look normal except me.
In the glass, I was the only one without a face.
I dropped the mirror and watched my reflection shatter into a hundred pieces.
Every piece crawled toward a different corner of the room.
My reflection kept rubbing its cheek as if something was caught beneath the skin.
Then my own face began to feel loose.
My late husband disappeared from our wedding photo one year after his death.
This morning he reappeared beside the bed in the reflection behind us.
A second wet toothbrush appeared beside mine in the bathroom cup.
The mirror fogged from a shower that had never been turned on.
The elevator warning beeped because it was over capacity even though I was the only passenger.
The mirror showed eight people.
The bathroom light burned out while I was looking in the mirror.
My reflection stayed visible.
The medicine cabinet mirror opened by itself while I was washing my face.
There is no cabinet behind it, only another bathroom with someone washing my face.
The mirror selfie looked normal until I zoomed in on the shower behind me.
Someone had written SEE YOU TOMORROW in the steam.
I removed the clown makeup after the costume party, but the smile remained in the mirror.
Then it began widening.
A clown entered the hotel elevator with me at three in the morning and never pressed a button.
When I stepped off, the mirror showed him still standing directly behind me.