"Do it, Sammy. You know you want to."
I chewed my pencil, alternately twisting it in my hands and tapping against my desk. No matter how many nervous habits I picked up, nothing could distract me completely from that soft and terrible sound–my voice inside my own ears.
I could never make it stop.
I sat up, straining my head over the top of my compartment, to the sea of cubicles ahead– nothing but bobbing heads with headsets commuting with the steady clack of computer keys. Every so often a phone rang, adding to the humdrum of monotony. It was nothing but mindless busywork–a welcome routine. Sometimes I thought about jumping ship, taking that job with Detective Olsen, pretending to be a psychic as I helped him track down bad guys... But the world's evil thrust on top of my own would have been too much to handle. I chewed on my eraser tip, groaning quietly. Even in this constant din she was hard to ignore.
How could you ignore what you were anyway?
"He could be stalking his next victim right now. I bet she's brunette--and feisty, like us."
"There is no us!" I whipped a compact mirror from my purse, glaring down at the small, round glass and lowering my voice to an angry whisper-hiss. "There's only ever been me. If I hadn't been resuscitated after the accident, I never would have seen you. And now that I know what you are... I will never let you out."
I waited, but she didn't move, remaining nothing more than an ordinary reflection. She pulled that trick only in her most desperate moments, when she felt me beginning to slip from her reach.
Suddenly, she smiled–a plain thing, made lovely if only by her inner strength. A young woman in a pencil skirt with a white, long-sleeved shirt slightly faded from use. She was slimmer than her high school days, due to the stress, but her small, sharp features were kinder–except when she took control.
There was nothing nice about her. Dark ringlets were pulled into a bun, magnifying eyes that sparkled with malevolence. Her best features were also her most telling–large almond eyes no longer mine alone. Sometimes they almost looked black whenever her small lips curved in delight for wicked things.
"Getting scared?" I punched my own knee in resentment. "Answer me!"
She cracked the silence with a smirk. "You think I won't escape? We'll see about that."
I snapped the mirror closed and threw off the headset. A few curious heads swiveled in my direction and I pasted on a smile, whispering a hasty apology. I stood, zig-zagging through rows of cubicles until I reached the sanctity of the employee break room.
It was a large piece of space, with the aura of a prison recreation room that would not be disguised no matter how many stupid, motivational posters were plastered on the asylum-white walls.
I trudged to the water dispenser, avoiding the mirror above the coffee machine next door. I filled a plastic cup with water, both eyes fastened on the glass even as I heard the door swing open and closed behind me.
"Good morning, Miss Jones!" Mr. Werther smiled, full of his usual good cheer. He was happily rotund, middle-aged man, with a closet full of the same combinations of sweaters and trousers. When I moved to Harbor Village, he was the first stranger to show me true kindness. He gave me a telemarketing position at his company, his wife helped me find an apartment I could afford, and his twin daughters dropped by to eat popcorn and gossip–which was why I had such a hard time accepting him for what I saw.
In the mirror, Mr. Werther's reflection appeared more demon than man, signified only by his staring black eyes–like round pits of darkness. Black eyes were rare, but when they emerged I recognized them for what they were–a sign of evil. But that wasn't the real Mr. Werther, not yet anyway.
