Cracks in the Mirror

One Last Time

I think she found a way.

The girl in the mirror found a way to get out.

I am lying in bed one night, when I hear the repulsive sound of fingernails on wood.

I look straight up at the roof.

And then I can't look away.

She's up there.

Me.

But a rather horrifying version of me.

She has streams of blood running down her cheeks, and her hair has been pulled out in clumps.

And her fingernails scratch on the roof, as she looks straight into my eyes.

She grins, showing off her rotting teeth, and crawls closer to me.

And then her fingers let go of the roof.

She falls onto my chest, and my heartbeat rockets.

Her head jerks up, her hair brushing against my chin, and she grins at me.

And then her rotting fingernails scratch my cheek, leaving a burning sensation on the side of my face.

That's when I find my voice.

I start screaming.

And then I can't stop.

The tears refuse to be quiet this time, and they leave my body in long, painful wails.

My voice breaks before my parents rush into my room.

My mother is the first to speak up.

"Lilly? Lilly! What's wrong?"

I catch my breath and my sobs mellow down into quiet whimpers before I try to speak.

I can't tell them the truth.

I just . . . can't.

Who would believe a thirteen year old who created her brother and best friend?

"Just . . . a bad dream. It's nothing. You can go back to bed."

My mother sighs as if she does not believe me.

I've grown familiar to that action.

She looks at dad, who nods in confirmation to something, before she turns back to me again.

"Lilly . . . do you need to talk to a therapist?"

"Do I . . . no, of course not!"

"We know something's going on, and you're clearly unwilling to talk to us about it."

"So what makes you think that I'd be willing to talk to a stranger about it?"
Mum shakes her head in exasperation.

"Lilly . . . just . . . consider it, okay?"

I've already told them my decision, but I still nod.

It's just easier than arguing.

They walk out of my room, and they start whispering about me again.

It's as if they don't realise that I live in the same house as them.

I throw off the covers and walk over to the mirror.

Through the nineteen distinguishable cracks on the mirror, I see a distorted reflection of myself.

My fingers graze against my cheek in disbelief.

My right cheek is red and swollen.

My hand splays out onto the surface of the mirror, and I feel so tired.

I lean my weight against the glass, and I hear it cracking further.

This has never happened before.

I don't care.

If this is what gets her to go, so be it.

If she takes me along, I'll just leave.

Death seems like the better alternative right now.

The mirror shatters, shiny shards falling onto the carpet.

My hands start bleeding.

Still I push.

My head hurts, and so do my back and my legs.

But I push.

I put my last reserve of energy into this push, and I jerk forward onto the cracked surface with both hands.

It cracks.

Every inch of it.

Finally.

I don't know what's going to happen next.

Am I going to die?

Is this how it ends- with the object of my terror leaving, but taking me along for the ride?

I don't know.

A second later, I do.

I fall onto the carpet, and it seems to be in slow motion, like the time I got knocked over by the car.

The first crack.

The cycle has gone full circle.

My head thumps onto the wooden floor, onto the glass pieces, but my body is numb.

And then I see a figure in front of me.

It's not her . . . it's him.

Connor.

He laughs at me as if I've just cracked a hilarious joke.

Even through these circumstances, I'm glad to see him one last time.

He crouches, pokes my nose, and laughs again.

"Joining me, sis?"

I try to nod my head, but I feel paralyzed.

He laughs and skips away, fading into nothing.

They say you have about six minutes of brain activity left when you're going to die.

But to me, it felt like hours.

I let myself think about Lizzy and Connor for the first time in so many months.

I think about my old house, my old life.

How I had it all, and never knew it.

I let myself think about everything I'm leaving behind, but at this point, it doesn't seem like much.

Mum and dad have grown away from me.

But I still let myself think about them.

I think about the girl in the mirror, whether all this will finally make her happy.

I hope so.

I don't want her to terrorise other innocent people.

I hope she'll be satisfied.

I hope she'll be happy.

I hope I will be, too.

And then I close my eyes.