The Many Deaths of Me

Mirrors and reflections in general are weird, to say the least. They are the one way you used to see yourself, and the reflective metal that mirrors are made of possess unusual properties. But you've heard all this before, so I'll cut to the chase.

In January, a mirror was delivered to my house. It was a good one; mint condition, a bargain, victorian, all the rest. One thing bugged me before I got it though. There was only one in stock, and one delivery company that could deliver it. And it was being delivered at night.

So, this mirror comes at Eight-past Midnight on January 17th, packaged in an old, worn box that looked used to death. I opened it, and there was the mirror. It was well made, with a nice, smooth oaken border and there wasn't a scratch. That was the first weird thing. 1856, they said it was from. 156 years, and no damage whatsoever? It may have been refurbished or something. I stuck it up in my room, in a subtle place on the wall. Yet, it dominated the room. That was strange also. I used it for cleaning my teeth, doing my hair, and all the other regular stuff people do. Of course, something wasn't right. It never is.

I was cleaning my teeth, see, and I got a call. I ceased cleaning, and answered the phone.

"Hello?" The voice said timdly, "Have you ordered a mirror recently?" I was stumped.

"Yes, I have" I said, confused. "Why is it of concern? Who are you, anyways?"

"You can't know. You don't want to. Just please, for your sake, smash that mirror, burn it, destroy it, DO WHATEVER!" I jumped. "My father will NOT like you, trust me!" The voice coughed and weezeed, "It's dange.. danger... dange.... AAAAAHHHHHHH!"

The phone went dead. I turned around. And jumped a mile. It was me. Smiling a wider grin than is humanely possible. And I had a knife. I shook my fist at it. It waved the knife. I ran towards myself. Myself ran at me. The possessed reflection just raised the knife....

And stabbed itself.

I howled in pain, as if I'd been stabbed. Because I had. It was me, and I had stabbed myself. We were in unison. Me and that mirror. So that meant that pain to one was also pain to the other. I ran down to the kitchen, and grabbed a carving knife. Sharp, serrated, deadly, the tool for the bloody job. I ran up to my room. It was there, the mirror, waiting. I composed myself, then threw the knife. The mirror threw its knife, and I threw my jacket at the mirror. It did the same. I gasped.

It had revealed it hideous, mangled and disgusting body, and as the knife hit it clean on, the corpse burst into blood. But then, I saw myself again, dead, on the floor with a knife through me. I saw me being shot. Tortured. Thrown off a cliff. Frozen. Left for dead. Eaten. Burnt. Executed. Any gruesome death, and it was there. I was shocked at all of them. Each one gave me the experience of death, of sadness, of demise, of hell, of.....

I couldn't take it. I grabbed a sledgehammer from my shed, ran up my stairs, and screamed "GO DIE IN HELL YOU FUCKING DEVIL!" and then swung, hittting the mirror with such force it smashed into a million pieces, and I was showered in painful glass shards, and I had hit myself with all the strength and brutality that I had hit the mirror with. Then I realized the truth. I had hit myself, and smashed some of my bones. I fainted, laughing at my victory and how I had fulfilled that weirdos' supposed dying wish.

I was out of hospital shortly, but I only got straight after a few weeks. Of course, it's needless to say I don't clean my teeth next to a mirror anymore....