MirrorMirror

9 / The Conversation

In the mornings, the day took Time's baton from the night, and ran across the sky until they met again to hand it back. The day's contrail was sunlight, a welcome blaze to brighten and inspire.

To some, sunlight revitalised. To some, sunlight renewed entirely.

To Cassidy, sunlight blinded.

He blinked, shielding his eyes from the light streaming in through his bedroom window. At first, he was confused. He shouldn't have had to protect himself from the light. It was night time, and the blind was closed. There would only be the slight glow at the blind's edges. It wouldn't be so dazzling.

He waited a few moments, still shielding and blinking, until his eyes had adjusted to the glare, then he sat up.

Where was his quilt? Why was the mattress so ha...

Cassidy looked around. He was sitting on the floor of his bedroom, by the door of the wardrobe. The window blind was all the way up, allowing the sun to shove its colossal head in his face and give him a welcome early morning headache.

What? Why wasn't he in bed?

He looked around again, realisation taking the place of the sunlight to temporarily blind him. He'd been awake in bed. No, not in bed, but going to bed. No, trying to. Something was stopping him. Something... What was...?

He understood, being next to the wardrobe, what else he was near. He didn't know why he was on the floor waking up, but the last thing he saw flashed in his mind, banishing the glaring effects of the sun. He looked up.

I'm Amy.

He felt suddenly queasy, with pressure at the back of his throat threatening him with an eruption of vomit. He swallowed it back down and held his head until the sensation passed. When it had, he slowly pushed himself to standing, avoiding the mirror's message. He knew he'd have to look, but he needed to prepare himself first.

Cass took a deep breath. Two. It was as steady as he was going to be, albeit not very, so he faced the mirror.

I'm Amy.

It was still there, waiting for him.

Well, he had introduced himself, so it would only be polite for the other to do the same. 'Other' was the only term he could think of. They couldn't be a person, that much was apparent. They also could not be a ghost. He didn't believe in them, so they didn't exist.

He had wondered, in the past, if such things were only real for the believers. A ghost could haunt you, because ghosts were real to you. You'd go to Heaven because you had faith in God, or the alternative versions of both. In some far-off sea, Merpeople swam. If you didn't believe, as was the case with him, you would never experience or meet any of them.

The writing was real, but none of the explanations for its existence could be. He'd have to concentrate on it alone, and ignore any thoughts of its origin until they became apparent. If that shook, or completely trashed, his beliefs, he would deal with it when (if) it happened.

"Hi, Amy," he said.

He managed a smile, not that anyone could see it.

The change was instantaneous. As if a living thing, the substance that made up the letters moved. making up the letters moved. It scurried across the surface like tiny ants trying to keep up with their colony. When it stopped, new words had formed. More words, requiring more of the lipstick ink, yet nothing had appeared to add any.

He'd witnessed the transformation. Whatever his beliefs, he'd seen it occur with no outside influence. The deep breath he took to aid his acceptance leaked out through his nostrils like the ectoplasm he so vehemently denied.