The mirror

There is a mirror in my house. I don't know where it came from.

Or, I do. It came from outside. Who sent it to me? There is a mirror in my house. I don't want it here.

The mirror

I woke up today. People, generally speaking, wake up on days, like today, and I am no exception. I stress that I woke up today. It is important to me that you understand this: I woke up today.

I woke up today and stumbled down the stairs to see it standing there. It was not a dream. I am not making things up, or imagining things, or, I emphasize, half-remembering a dream. I looked down the stairs and it was there. I could've touched it if I wanted. I didn't. I haven't.

No, it wasn't there yesterday. Or was it? It is here today. I look down the stairs and I see it. It's standing there. I could touch it if I wanted. I haven't. I won't, because I don't want it here. I won't, because if I do, it might decide to stay.

There is a mirror in my house. I don't know what to do with it.

Yesterday

I woke up yesterday and the mirror was not there. I'm sure of it. I would have noticed it. When I stumbled down the stairs that morning, or crawled up them in the afternoon, I would have seen the mirror. If it was there. It is here now. I look down the stairs and I see it standing there.

It stands like a tower: cold, immutable, unshakeable. Or, well. The longer I look at it—is it standing, as in, staying in place? Or is it standing, as in, the process of getting up? Of slowly, endlessly, unfolding upward? It looks bigger than it was before. Not that there was a before, because I would have noticed.

The cat

My cat does not notice the mirror. She does not notice much about me these days. She's not really my cat, anyway, she just likes to visit. I let her in. Sometimes, when she walks by it, she curls her tail around it as my blood freezes and my heart plunges into my stomach—but she always passes it by, without a glance at the thing that looms above her.

Sometimes I think I must be going mad. Maybe the mirror isn't there at all, like it wasn't yesterday. Or was yesterday? How do you talk about something that isn't there? Or maybe everybody has a mirror—maybe everybody wakes up in the morning to peer fearfully down the stairwell, at the mirror standing there at the bottom, so far away and yet still so tall. And taller. Is it getting taller?

Outside

The mirror came from outside. I'm sure of it. I focus on the things I'm sure of.

Who sent it to me? It didn't arrive in a package, or have a stamp, or a return address. I woke up and it was there, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

Did my cat bring it in? She comes from outside too. Did she send it to me? My cat does not notice the mirror, and she couldn't have carried it in anyway. Maybe it was smaller before. It's still growing now.

Recognition

They say animals can't recognize themselves in mirrors. I don't know if that's true. Does my cat peer into the glass, seeing something that looks as she does and moves as she does and must curl in disgust as she does, and not feel that raw instinctual recognition?

Can they recognize me? When my cat looks back and forth between the mirror and I, does she see me or a stranger? But my cat does not notice the mirror. I do not understand how. It is so impossibly tall.

I haven't looked yet. I close my eyes when I walk by it. Maybe I would not recognize the shapes in the mirror either. I could look if I wanted. I won't. I can't, because I am afraid. I am afraid of the half-recognition. My thoughts are all jumbled. I keep repeating myself.

There is a mirror in my house, and I don't want it here.

Water

I had a glass of water. I'm having a glass of water. I need to clear my head. I can't think.

The mirror is standing there.

I watch the room around me wobble and distort in the water. It is deafening quiet.

The kitchen drawer

The kitchen drawer is loud. The silverware clatters like teeth. It all dies in the silence.

The mirror is standing there.

The cat

She isn't here anymore. Where did she go?

I know where the fault lies.

The mirror

The first drop of blood hits the floor like a gunshot.

The mirror stands there, in front of me. The knife protrudes out of it at a strange angle.

My face dances across the cracks in the glass. They run outward, from the point of the knife to the metal frame, in fine spiderweb.

The mirror is bleeding. The blood gushes from the wound in thick wet rivers.

The glass trickles down with it. The fly is free.

The door creaks open and does not shut.

There is nothing for me in this house anymore.

There is nothing for me in that house anymore, and I am alive.