My breath swirls in front of me, a small cloud of translucent air. It's so bright in here, with the light reflecting off of the walls, the floor, the ceiling. It's pure light. Clean. I feel free in this hall. My feet slowly move forward, silently. The only audible sound is my breath, creating the clouds of air. I look around at the glittering hall. Smooth, transparent blocks form the shining walls, the ceiling made of sheets of frosted ice. White blocks, broken by black, create the floor. A checkerboard. A game. Our game.
As I move, my white dress shifts, swaying with each step. I'm not numb from the cold. My skin, my muscles, my body, has grown used to the constant freezing temperature. My heart still beats. It beats with the ice. Why? It's what I've become.
Continuing down the path, I see my reflection pass by in the thousand mirrors that line the walls, watching me. I finally reach the steps. My body no longer screams at my movements as I step higher and higher to the pedestal. When I reach the top, it stands before me. The Mirror. Covered in iridescent silk. My heart skips, my breathing hitches. Reaching out, I push the material to the side, watching it fall mutely. I turn my head, and for the first time in years, I see myself. My skin is no longer a sun-kissed gold, but rather a smooth and sparkling porcelain with my cheeks tinted the faintest of pinks. Where the light hits my face, delicate ice-crystal patterns glitter. My hair is decorated with silver strands. My lips are a dusty pink and my eyes...my eyes are no longer a soft green, but a pale blue with snowflakes that dance. I have transitioned. I do not belong to the seasons. I belong only to winter.
The mirror is framed with shimmering carved ice, but it's incomparable with the perfect reflective glass. I lift my hand, slowly and gently moving to touch where I meet my reflection. Or is it? Maybe I'm the reflection. Is it part of the game?
When my hand meets the glass, I gasp. It cracks. Once. Twice. Three times. Veins expand through the mirror, and when the final split reaches the edge, there's a pause. With a burst, shards fall to the floor, a tinkling shatter breaking the silence. The reflections are shattered.
Is this the end of the game?
Written in: 2016, 17 y/o
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The Works
Fiksi UmumA variety of of works written by me from 2013 and onwards. Essays, poems, short stories, one shots; set tasks, random ideas, and dream-inspired.
