Cracks in the Mirror

Infestation in My Imagination

I . . . what?

"Of course I have a little brother! His name is Connor and he's eight and he's really athletic and he looks exactly like you, dad!"

Dad just shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

"Act's up, Lil. It's not funny anymore."

My mother just agrees and they walk to their bedroom chatting.

I walk to my bedroom slowly in disbelief, hoping that mum and dad are going to burst out laughing at any moment, teasing me for falling for their sick joke.

But they don't.

I don't have a little brother.

I close the door behind me quietly and sit onto my bed, my eyes fixed on a spot in the distance.

I don't have a little brother.

I remember all the times we laughed together, played together, and everything starts to make sense.

Mum and dad never seemed to talk to him much.

That's because he was imaginary.

I can hear mom and dad laughing about something down the hall, as if they didn't just tell me that someone I have been living with for eight whole years was imaginary.

But has it been eight whole years?
To be honest, I only have memories of him from when he was six years old.

I assumed I had just forgotten the rest.

Oh my god.

I created him two years ago.

A ready-made brother to share all my problems with.

Someone who was willing to listen.

He wasn't the neglected sibling as I had thought.

He was the imaginary one.

There's a sudden sound, and my head jerks up at the familiar noise.

I watch as the bottom left corner of the mirror slowly cracks, small shards falling onto the wooden floor. The crooked lines spread until they cover almost one fourth the area of the mirror.

So it doesn't just crack when I'm in physical pain.

I've wasted so many tears this month, that I can't even conjure up a single one to grieve the loss of my brother.

I just sit there with a growing pain in my chest, with no way to express it.

I've never had my heart broken, but I think this is what it would feel like.

I begin to wonder what else I had imagined.

All my friends, the ones who never wanted to meet my parents for reasons they never bothered to tell me.

Were they imaginary too?

What about my best friend?

Did I imagine Lizzy?

I fall back onto my bed, and the tears are still hesitant.

My hand sprawls out for my phone, and I go through my call history.

I called her so recently, her number should be here.

I scroll down the list.

Down.

Down.

Down.

I reach last year's history, before I tell myself to stop.

Lizzy wasn't real either.

No brother.

No friends.

No reality.

My hand clutches my chest, and the pain grows more prominent.

The tears finally come.

Silent, warm trails of water down my cheeks.

They come, and then they don't go away.

I choke for breath, but it doesn't seem worth it anymore.

Maybe I should just close my eyes and wait for the mirror to do what it does best.

Hurt me.

Because, at this point, nothing can hurt me more than my own mind.