The Mirror of My Soul. (An original fiction . . . sort of.)
A/N: At the moment I'm rewatching and reviewing "Bloody Mary", and it's reminded me of a story I wrote a number of years ago that was inspired by some of the mirror lore that was discussed in that episode. I've never posted it on a fansite before since it's not, strictly, fanfiction. But it does contain a character who I'm sure dark!Dean fans will find strikingly familiar. So, what the hey. Maybe it's time it came out of mothballs.
Title: The Mirror of My Soul
Word count: 1500
Rating: PG
Genre: Supernatural Horror
Characters: OMCs (sort of).
Summary: if you're not living your life, maybe it's time for reflection.
They say that it’s bad luck to break a mirror. They say a lot about mirrors: that they reveal the future, or truth; that breaking one will damage your future, or expose dark secrets. Some people cover mirrors at night, or when someone dies, believing that a mirror can capture the spirits of sleepers, or the dead. It’s said that mirrors reflect the “shadow soul” - your true nature - which is why soulless creatures like vampires and demons are supposed to cast no reflection. To break a mirror is to shatter your own soul.
Certain rituals can repel the bad luck, like throwing salt, or grinding the pieces to dust . . . I don’t recall any advice about a mirror that won’t break, but I never gave these things much thought before. Now I have nothing else to do except to think . . .
. . . to reflect.
~
“ARGHH!”
In the deathly quiet, just as I was reaching for the TV remote, my mobile rattled a loud, restless path across the desk. My heart was still thudding as I answered, and Scott caught the agitation in my voice.
‘You sound breathless, Bob,” he remarked. “Been working out?”
I laughed. As if. “You just startled me. What’s up?”
“The gang’s heading to Budgewoi. Rockmobster’s playing. You coming?”
I sighed. After a week of number crunching in the city, I didn’t fancy a crowded pub with loud music. Even the thought of getting ready to go out seemed too much effort.
“Nah. Been in meetings all day long,” I told him. “I just want to veg out.”
“You mean stare at the box all night and mope about Caitlin. Forget her, mate. Don’t be a loser all your life.”
Maybe he had a point. Since my latest catastrophic relationship went up in smoke, I hadn’t done much else. I’d rented a studio flat at Tuggerah and spent my time channel surfing, or surfing the net. Friday evenings I’d ritually trawl local “what are you doing this weekend?” listings, checking all the gigs and shows I knew I wouldn’t see, then order take-out and settle in for a thrilling evening of watching Australia’s funniest, worst and stupidest. This evening was no different. I made my excuses and as I ended the call I caught my reflection in the mirror opposite the desk and rolled my eyes at it, then reached for the remote once more. Before closing the webpage, I happened to notice the local councill was holding a short story competition. I shut the laptop and thought no more about it.
At first. But between the corn chips and Antiques Roadshow, it started worming into my brain. As it happens, I did some writing when I was younger: thrillers and the like. Nothing published . . . or even finished . . . but 1500 words didn’t seem a huge commitment, and who wouldn’t want to win an iPad mini? But what would I write about? My gaze strayed to the mirror and I sought inspiration from my reflection; he stared levelly back at me without offering suggestions, but presently an idea hatched and I contemplated the mirror’s fake-antique frame.
Frankly, that mirror had always bothered me. It was too big, and out of place in a modern house, but it was fixed to the wall when I moved in, so it stayed. I told myself it made the pokey room look bigger, and my constant reflection following me around provided an illusion of company. I even talked to him sometimes when something on TV surprised or annoyed me. Most of the room, what amounted to my life, was reflected in that glass: bed, wardrobe, couch, TV, desk, other flat-pack furnishings, junk and boxes I hadn’t bothered to unpack.
I started googling the history of mirrors, jotting notes on folklore, superstitions etc., but it was the man in the mirror who captured my imagination. I began to frame a story about an “other” me, a guy who looked and talked like me . . . only better: smarter, more confident, fitter and more energetic. He didn’t sit around moping, didn’t make excuses when friends called; he went out and got on with his life. With him in mind, I opened a document and typed the title:
The Mirror of My Soul
by Robert Trebor
but I didn’t know how to begin. I frowned at the page then glanced up at my reflection, who stared questioningly back at me. Eventually I returned my attention to the screen and my fingers hovered purposefully over the keyboard . . .
An uneasy chill crept slowly over my flesh. I was possessed by an idea that my reflection hadn’t looked down, was still watching me. With odd unwillingness I lifted my head to check and now, of course, he was looking at me because I was looking at him. Chuckling and shaking my head I returned to my story and tried to dismiss foolish notions, but presently I was examining him again, staring hard into the eyes, and telling myself I was imagining that I saw something mocking there.
Then he winked.
A cry trapped in my throat as I shot back in my chair and slammed against the wall. In defiance of my racing heartbeat, I told myself that it hadn’t really happened; I’d let my imagination get the better of me. But the evidence of my eyes contradicted me: while I sat bolt upright in my chair, he was leaning back, relaxed and nonchalant, regarding me with obvious amusement.
“Pathetic,” he declared. “You can’t even imagine how to have fun, can you? You could be with your mates, listening to a great band; at a night club, or any of a dozen gigs around the coast tonight. But, you’d rather do something that doesn’t require you to get off your butt.” He smirked and indicated the empty page. “Or not do it.” With that he closed his laptop . . . my laptop . . . and stood up. He looked taller, somehow. It was in his bearing: straight-backed and assured, not hunched and self-conscious. “You’ve got a great view, here,” he remarked, peering out the window. “But you never even look out.”
I made a half-hearted attempt to glance back through the window, but I was riveted in place.
“Five minutes from the lake; would it kill you to go for a run?” he persisted. “You live in this beautiful place, with the best beaches in NSW, but do you ever go for a swim? A bush walk? Nah.” He scoffed. “Why am I even talking to you?”
Opening the wardrobe he started rifling through my shirts, flinging them one by one onto the bed. “Crap,” he pronounced. “Crap. Crap.” Then he held one against himself and squinted back toward me. “Could work,” he muttered, then repeated the process with my t-shirts before crossing the room and disappearing into the bathroom.
I was transfixed, staring wild-eyed at the reflected door, hearing my own ragged breathing, then other noises - running water, the buzz of my shaver - that sounded like they were coming from the real bathroom. Eventually horrid curiosity forced me to my feet and I crept to the door. My fingers hesitated over the handle then opened it in a rush, like ripping off a plaster. The room was empty.
“Here, butt-wipe!” he mocked me from the mirror. I turned and was drawn inexorably, magnetically toward him. He wore clothes I wouldn’t have thought to put together, but looked great in them, better than I ever had. And he’d changed his hair. Two minutes with a trimmer had transformed it into something rugged and stylish. As I stood before him he looked me up and down, turned left and right and smoothed back his hair with the palm of a hand.
Could I look that good? I wondered. Could this be me?
With a satisfied nod he turned to the desk behind him, grabbed my keys, slipped my wallet into his back pocket and headed toward the main door.
“Wait!” I finally managed to gasp. “Where are you going?”
“To get a life,” he replied, smirking.
“But . . . it’s my life,” I objected weakly.
He just shrugged. “Not like you were doing anything with it,” he said, and was gone.
I heard footsteps on the stairs and the street door open and close. A car door slammed, and an engine started. I was convinced if I ran to the window I’d see him driving away in my car, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t turn or look back. At the edge of the mirror I could glimpse its ornate frame and, ahead, everything in the room that it reflected, but that was all. I couldn’t even see my hands as they beat helplessly against the unyielding glass.
Or hear the soundless scream that vented from my imprisoned soul.
.