In Reflection

To Whoever Finds This Letter,

There's a mirror on my bedside. I've turned it away from me. It faces the window now. I haven't mustered the strength to look into it, but it taunts me. All mirrors do. I'm so terrified of mirrors lately. And it's not even that I don't know what I'll see; it's that I don't think I'd be able to cope once I've seen it with my own eyes.

I catch glimpses, though. Terrible glimpses. And the brief, lucid flashes horrify me. Like seeing the startled silhouette of a puppet staring back through the darkness with glowing eyes, utterly and perfectly upset. It's...uneasy. Is that man in the shadows truly me? Are those eyes in the darkness the same eyes, whose terrible vision they do reflect?

I can't even tell whether anything is real anymore, or if I'm simply drifting in same vague, terrible realm of semi-coherent cadaveric babble, like the whispering secrets of a graverobber.

I'm probably not making much sense, right now. To be honest, I've lost track of the fine line between sense and nonsense. Hard to tell what's normal. C'est la vie? Who can say anymore?

Things have seemed normal. I'm sure if you -- any of you, like mannequins gazing through the uncleaned glass, (or perhaps I am the mannequin?) -- had seen me -- although maybe you have… Forgive me if I lose track of the story, but time has become very illusory to me lately, and it gets hard to keep track of dates and statements through the windows and fog. But if any of you had seen me, and maybe you have, I doubt you'd find many things amiss.

Ah, perhaps that's the cruelest part. So far, at least until now, nothing has been amiss. I've lived a fairly standard role for the past few months. Day through day, I've woken up, made my way to work, danced my way through the hours like a monkey on the street, then tried to stay unassuming as I made my way back home. Then I'd eat dinner, say goodnight to my daughter, and go to sleep.

At the very least, I can tell, my daughter, well, she loves me. Or perhaps she has been conditioned to act like it; completely without intent, but rather just walking through the motions, like a windup toy, neglected to time, but still ticking? Who am I to criticize, if that were the case?

How amusing, I’ve begun to care about the mannequins.

Preceding’s were so dreadfully, awfully dull. I had begun to feel ill. Dull and ill in a way that dulls and ills the senses, to the point where I've begun to forget seemingly important things. Or did I forget them? I can't shake the feeling that, at some leering point, now long past, there were other memories. Another life. Did I not have a wife before this wife? A child before this daughter?

''‘Whatever strata of iniquity my nature underlie.’'' How interesting a passage that is to read now. I’ve found myself in the peculiar situation of feeling more truthful on paper than when I speak so, reader, if I’m still alive when you manage to pry this parchment from the ashes, please don’t listen to me. I’ve betrayed myself before, and my wife has the proof. If you are my wife, I apologize. I did not mean all the things I said, positive or negative.

I'm haunted by my own body. My hands, my arms, my eyes. My brain --the senseless mass of greymatter that it is -- has begun to rot, in this environment. That's why, for a few weeks, now, I've taken to narrating my life out loud, before I go to bed. My wife, bless her, seems concerned. I suppose she should be. I don't talk about her in the most forgiving of lights. She's had me visit a therapist.

As much as I don't trust him, he's told me to start writing down these winding thoughts on paper. So, I'm doing just that, now, instead of talking aloud, to myself. I suppose, in a way, I'm writing to somebody specific: to you, doctor.

I suppose you should know that I've started seeing you more and more often lately, in the windows, staring through the glass. Signs of delusion? I'm certain you would say so, but how can I be sure?

I've seen many things that don't make sense. Too many people observe me. Eyes peer from the closet,  and, of course, under the bed. Voices in the pipes, in the air between the buildings, I hear them whisper about me. Like a sort of gross gibberish. My dreams consist of nothing but strangers, whose eyes peer into me with a sort of awful judgmental glare. Who are these people, I wonder? Are they those memories I feel I have forgotten?

I’ve become disenchanted, although I can’t seem to remember ever being enchanted in the first place. I hope I’ve gone terribly mad. Hope, because if I haven’t, if these visions, these paranoias are real, then I’d feel terribly guilty to abandon those who care about me to the cruel empty world surrounding us. I’ve spent far too long dreaming, far too long swimming in an empty pool. I’d like to wake up now.

Consider this my first and final letter to you. If you are reading this, I am already dead. Tomorrow, I'm going to either kill myself, or do who knows what else. I don't trust myself around my family anymore. If this is to be my will, then I can't say I'm of sound mind or body, but I should let you be the judge of that, doctor. I leave my many gifts to my daughter, because she's given so many to me. To my wife, I am sorry for the sudden loss. To you, I leave my corpse. Please burn it.

Signed,

________