The Mirror Games

CHAPTER ONE

«There you go», said Mom, sighing in relief, and I sighed in turn, only I was annoyed.

Since the UPS guy had come three days ago carrying it, everything she had talked about was that stupid mirror. It was a relic, some three-centuries-old object passed from an old, grumpy Great-Aunt I had only seen in photos, when I was little and my Granny told me stories about her family.

When looking at the pictures, Grandma always talked dearly of her sweet, charming and caring eldest sister, Great-Aunt Peg, telling the story of how much her sister had loved that same mirror I was staring at. Since she had received it when she was 15, Great-Aunt Peg had polished the frame and cleaned the surface every day, and had stared at it more often than normal. She had even taken the mirror to her new house after she'd married. One day, though, she had changed, out of the blue. She had become the exact opposite of what she had always been: mean, cold, indifferent, even unwilling to perform her duties as housewife. The house had been a mess, she wouldn't cook for her husband, and she had given in to every vice of the time. The only thing she'd cared about was the mirror, still polishing it at least once every day. Great-uncle had died of broken heart (some even said poisoned) two months later, and she had become a sort of hermit.

To me, it sounded like the first fanatic feminist in history.

Apparently, though, the same pattern had repeated over the centuries, with different members of the family. Doctors, artists, family men and women, they had all changed abruptly. So the thing had escalated until it had become some sort of urban legend. According to the story, Great-Aunt Peg was just another victim of the mirror.

«It's just a mirror, Mom. What would I need one for?»

She sighed again. «Maybe you could start looking at the mirror before you go out», she answered, looking at my outfit.

It was my usual style: large sweatpants, even larger hoodies, training shoes, a ponytail in the back of my neck.

I followed her eyes, then looked back up. «It's the usual me, Mom. A mirror is not going to change that. Besides, jeans and heels are not the most comfortable thing to jog into.»

«Well, maybe instead of jogging so much you could start doing your homework. Your grades are getting worse and worse.»

I was tired of the same conversations. I picked my bag and hung it on my shoulder. «I'll do it later, Mom.»

«You've been saying that for the past two weeks, Ali.»

«Yeah, I know. I promise I'll do it later.»

She sighed and kissed my cheek, eating up the words that she was going to say: "you've promised that before". Instead, she just walked out of my room,

When Mom left, I looked closer at the frame. I had seen the back when Mom and the delivery guy had brought it in; it had a writing on the wood in the back. "Welcome to the battlefield", it said in big italic handwritten letters at the top; at the bottom, someone had scribbled "there is no win without a fight". From a distance, the frame was beautiful, with the gold forming waves and swirls. But when you looked at it closely, it had names engraved in very small letters: Elizabeth, James, Charles, Marie. Margaret.

At first, I thought it was strange. Why would someone ruin the frame that way? Besides, how could have someone marked the gold? Then I took a second look; these were perfect engravings, not scratches. Maybe its previous owners might have added their names in small plates. But it was impossible, because the gold was smooth and soft to the touch. It was impossible to add something that small without leaving any imperfections.