Mirrored

Behind the door

I didn't bother sleeping after my nightmare. I stayed poised in the same position on my bed for hours, only moving again when sunlight began to shine through the vines on the side of the house and into my room.

The rain had stopped hours before, yet through out the night I could still hear the distant sound of thunder shaking the humble earth, and the faded flash of lightning stinging my eyes for a mere second.

Though, now- as I slowly walk to the window and forced it open, I noticed a bright, open sky with the beautiful colors of a sun rising, indicating morning.

I breathe in the warm and breezy air slowly through my nose, moving some plants aside to stick my head out further.

My eyes sting from the blazing hot sun. The skin surrounding my eyes droops down lazily as dark circles form around the creases. My frizzy and knotted hair disobeys my attempts to tie it up in a ponytail, so I continue to let it rest on my shoulders freely. The curled ends continue to brush against my neck and make my skin itch.

Looking around, it seems like I had overreacted for being scared all night, but I still got a shiver down my spine when I walked into the hall and found that the door was still propped open with the key belonging to my deceased uncle still in the keyhole.

Careful to avoid the floor boards from creaking, I make my way to the still door. The silence of the house is deafening. The normal groans that escape the old and cracking walls of the mansion are now silent; as if the house is watching me patiently to see what happens next.

The distant chirp of birds in the woods surrounding the building is the only noise that grabs my attention, but even they seem far off. They're songs distance themselves from me and whatever is behind the door I stand in front of.

Slowly, I lift my hand to touch the wood, but it's cold still figure makes me hesitate. I take a deep breath and calmly press my small, pale hand to the door, pushing it open.

Inside is a dusty empty room with untouched furniture standing around, waiting patiently to be used again. The walls are patterned like Katelyn and mine, except instead of blue or purple the color is green, with the design of a leaf rather then a rose or bird. The window makes the room bright and life-like, despite the fact that it's obvious nothing has been touched in years. The only furniture in the room is a giant library book, a writing desk, a chair, a wardrobe, and a long, narrow dresser desk. Only papers and a lamp sits on the writing desk, and on the dresser desk- nothing but a musty, scratched mirror.

I recognize the mirror almost immediately. Every last detail- from the chipped paint to the mossy edges, the mirror looks identical to the mirror depicted in my nightmare.

My nails dig into the sides of my arms tightly as if another part of me is trying to grab me and pull me out of the room, but I disobey my own thoughts. Biting my tongue harshly, I gather my courage and shuffle closer. The exterior design is extremely beautiful looking, all of the curved and swirled lines form into flowers or leafs. On either side of the flowers placed everywhere along the frame are carved diamonds completely symmetrical to the other. And tangled around the edges of the frame are actual vines, sprouting up from the cracks in the floor and growing around the mirror like a child to its mother. The old, faded look only adds to the magnificent beauty, like buildings in France or Italy that are old and falling apart, but still breathtaking to look at. The mirrors frame represents that exact kind of beauty.

Despite the frame keeping up with old age, however, the mirror itself seems indifferent. The edges are sprinkled with rapidly growing moss, slowly making its way to the middle in small groups. Dried water marks settle like chickenpox everywhere, either staying I their area or showing a left over birthmark of where the water migrated in tear-like drops down to the bottom of the mirror. I notice long, narrow scratches and Palm prints in almost every place I look. The scratches don't look like accidents, though. Some of them stay in groups of three, as if someone dragged the nails of their fingers down in rage or anger.