Reflection

Today I woke up with someone else’s shadow.

I didn’t notice it at first.  You never really see your shadow although, it clearly defines you.  But then when I opened my blinds – let the brilliant yellow-orange sunlight pour in- and sat on my bed to read a book… I knew something was wrong.

With the sunlight behind me, I should have a light black twin mirroring my every turn of the page.  I didn’t.

It reflected on the wall in front of me – standing – and facing my book-wielding self.  There was something in its posture that seemed to show anger, and petulance.  It seemed almost… cruel.

At first I thought I was imagining it.

“One too many all-nighters.”  I proclaimed, and without a second glance at it, dropped my book on the floor and proceeded to fall asleep.

But the next day, it was still there.

It was attached to my feet, however… I knew it wasn’t mine.  I tried to ignore it, to look for a reasonable explanation for everything.  Nothing came.

It did such horrible things.  I saw the shadow of a knife in its hand, and the viciousness of a thrust.  Twice. Thrice.  It was like some late night horror movie played out on my wall, with the shadow the only actor on scene.

It was Sunday.  My friend was supposed to come and treat me to dinner – I had all day alone.  Or, are you really alone when your shadow isn’t your own?

The phone wasn’t working – yet again, my low-paying job showing its flaws.  I couldn’t cancel.  Instead, I turned on my wireless radio – hoping some sound would clear up the uneasiness inside me.  The feeling of being watched.  Did I also hear a scratching noise?  No.  Couldn’t be.

A report.  Yesterday, a well known serial murderer had been caught, and while in jail had commit suicide.  The man was a psychopath – also dabbling into voodoo and the black arts.  He had been found holding a small pocket mirror and some black ink.  But the strangest part was… he had no shadow.  The police refused to comment on the situation, but as the reporter was just beginning to pester, the radio clicked off.  I had had enough.

I got up and walked to the bathroom, passing the small section of hallway I called my “beauty walkway” when I suddenly felt like I was being watched, again.  But this time, the feeling was more intense, down to my arms suddenly breaking out in goose bumps.  The echo of the radio gone, my small house was eerily quiet.

My eyes swept over objects, past windows and furniture, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.  I blamed my fearfulness on the radio report.

I turned to continue on when a hand grabbed mine.

I shrieked, tugging, but the grip was firm, and my head turned fully to face the man sized mirror beside me.

There was a man in the mirror.

His arm protruded like something from a bad dream, and the white teeth gleamed at me, a smirk on their own.  Quite terrifying, really, when the entire entity is pitch black.

In his hand, he carried a sharp looking knife – I began to hyperventilate when I saw the smiley faces on the yellow plastic handle.  The knife was from my kitchen.

All around the outer edge of the mirrored glass were symbols – some gibberish perhaps, a language on its own. 

A tug – iron grip – and I lost my breath as I was pulled into the mirror.  The man, by some unknown force, seemed propelled outwards – the inky blackness draining from his body as each portion of him was freed of the mirror.  It poured itself into me instead.  Within mere moments, I was the black and he was the white – so to speak.

“Why thank you, luv, for getting’ me out of that place.  Very kind of ya.”  The man spoke his last words in a rush, and I could barely keep standing because of the shock, let alone decipher the words and the accent.

“Now unfortunately I have to go.  Thanks for the wiiiild ride.”  He laughed and with a maniacal look in his eyes, smashed the knife handle into the mirror.

I shattered.  I fell.  I was no more.

The man, still laughing to himself, walked to the kitchen and tucked the knife back into the drawer.  He withdrew a longer, pointier knife and tucked it into a seam in his coat.  Then, walking towards the main door, he ground his heels into the shards of glass he walked over, powdering them, and left the house.

Once a murderer, always a murderer.  Every single part of you.