Poems, Stories, And Unorganized Messes

Through the Mirror

"Choose."

The voice was demanding. It was intimidating. Impatient.

"What do you mean, choose?" I looked down at the random objects before me. The glass shards in the white porcelain bowl glistened, glaring at me, daring me to prick my finger and draw crimson. The bowl of water was more subtle, clear and invisible, a mirror to another dimension.

"Choose." The voice echoed again. Should I choose the rebellious shards of a broken promise, or the liquid that supplies all life? Warm sunlight reflected of the broken glass, and birds started to sing their melodies in a unified chorus. The gardens around me were peaceful and harmonized with all life, but the choice I had to make was less comforting. The contents in their bowls lay on a granite table, albino with pureness and truth.

It was all so deceiving.

I looked around, completely alone in the garden, and proceeded to reach for the water. My heartbeat echoed in my chest, rising in volume continuously as my hand cautiously reached for the bowl.

"Choose." The voice and my heart pounded at my mind in unison, it was becoming unbearable. I took one last look at the water.

And grabbed the glass.

My hand immediately tore open, hot, thick, sticky blood spewing everywhere. That same anonymous voiced whispered in my ear, and all the screaming, all the noise, all the eruption grew silent.

"Water is refreshing, but blood is thicker."

The red liquid quickly puddled around my ankles, slowly rising like a bear out of slumber. It was at my waist, and quickly pooled up to my shoulders.

"You can't see through the window if it's in shards." I whipped my head around to look behind me, and I saw my reflection in a waterfall, with a grim smile plastered on my face. I meant to scream. But then blood engulfed me, and swallowed me...

"That's a horrid dream!" my friend yelled, expressing exaggerated terror.

"Yeah," I sighed, knowing deep down that she didn't understand. Sipping my coffee casually, I turned around and faced my reflection in the coffee shop window. I winked. She winked back. She understood. She was there. I gazed down at my hand. The scars were still painted on my palm like a grueling, twisted painting. I sipped my coffee again, and walked away.