The Mirror
by Erin Morgan
University of Delaware
Erin Morgan is an English and Astronomy Honors student (2028) at the University of Delaware, with a focus on creative writing. They have been writing to share with others for years, and are now really excited to be sharing even further!
A clock switches to another grey March day. Blocked out by undecorated grey walls of a similar hue. A desk sits in the corner of a dimly lit room. It sits cluttered with half-abandoned mugs and pencils, a dozen scrapped beginnings crumpled up and tossed aside. The chair is drawn out, covered in charcoal marks and a thin layer of dust. On the other end of the room, a bed sits occupied, tangled blue sheets wrapped around and around and stuffed with crumbs of a rotting sandwich and toys one might give to a child. A ringed light sits at the foot, white light peering over with a cold stare.
Amber eyes find a mirror, set so perfectly so that those eyes can find everything they need without bothering to move. They trace the lines of sheet and wall and skin, morphing into each other and melding into the same flat view it always has. They stare at the outline of a person and find only a shadow.
Unsteady feet rise, hitting the floor soundlessly. They find their way to the desk but do not move close enough to sit. Crumpled paper used to sit in waiting hands, so taunting and empty, sneering until the feeling turned sweet, and it was cast aside. These hands will not find paper today.
They abandon the desk and turn to a closet, opening the door to find it hollowed. It has been hollow for a while now. They close the door. It closes without a sound. The ringed light flickers.
An arm reaches for the handle of a second door, one that goes outside. Or at least it was supposed to go outside, but they couldn’t be so sure anymore. A shaking hand wrapped around a monotone handle, neither cool nor warm. It stayed there a minute and then retracted.
Wandering legs go back to the bed, and tuck up into the abandoned warmth. The gut is hungry. It yearns to be fed. It is always hungry, no matter how gifted it is. It is the greatest feeling in the room, this hunger. If they leave, what is to stop them from wrapping their lips around everything the world has to offer and spitting out the bitter taste. A head hits the pillow. It does not dream. It does not even sleep. Amber eyes find a mirror. They stare.
The clock ticks to another grey March day.
Unsteady feet rise, hitting the floor soundlessly. They find their way to the desk. A finger traces the rim of a mug, trying to find an imperfection. It finds none, other than the dust now creviced between the folds of their skin.
They abandon the desk. They go to the closet and stare for a while. They abandon the closet. They stand at the door and wait, hand wrapped around the handle. They abandon the door. The ringed light flickers.
Wandering legs go back to bed. They tuck up into the abandoned warmth, and the gut is still hungry. Amber eyes find the mirror as a head hits a pillow, and the room remains as one.
The clock switches to another March day.
Unsteady feet find the floor and make their way over to the desk. They run a finger over the wood, the dust shifts into a line.
They find the closet and open the door. It is hollow inside. They close the door.
The ringed light flickers. They find the handle of the door and a hand wraps around the handle. They do not open the door.
They go back to bed, covering their legs. With abandoned warmth. Amber eyes find the mirror and they stare at the formless shapes.
The clock switches to another March day.
Unsteady feet rise. They find their way to the desk. They wait.
They abandon the closet. They abandon the door.
The ringed light flickers. Wandering legs go back to bed.
The gut is hungry. Amber eyes stare.
The clock switches to another March day.
Feet rise.
Abandon the desk. Abandon the Closet. Abandon the door.
Light flickers. Back to bed.
Hungry. Eyes stare.
Another March day.
Feet. Desk.
Closet. Door.
Light.
Bed.
Hungry Stare.
Another March Day.
Step
Find
Close.
Wait
Flick
Lie.
Starve
Stare.
March.
Wait
Wait
Starve
Wait.
Wait
Wait
Starve
March.
Sleep.
Wandering eyes open, forgetting when it was that they closed. The light flickers in the room and the covers around them feel uncomfortably stiff and scratchy. They stumble out of bed, unsteady feet hitting the floor so harshly that they fall over, right in front of the mirror. Amber eyes stare into themselves, and across a face so known but unknown to them at the same time. Cheeks curved sunken, and skin seems to be rotting like the sandwich.
Unsure hands brush over the face, tracing the lines they thought they knew backward and forwards. Every strand of hair, every bone that juts out of their chest, the caverns carved between ribs and flesh. They stared long and hard until it felt like the roof of their mouth was detaching, and their sight grew blurry. It didn’t take long for the person staring back to be as formless as they felt, fading away into shadow and static. Smudging every tiny line and freckle until it could see no more. Before they lost themselves again, they turned to the desk and opened the papers that had sat crumpled along the sides.
Every one told a different story of what lay outside the door, warnings of cruel words and lights so bright that running seemed impossible. Every single one ended the same. Cold smells and harsh words and large figures running out of endless white. Every one was trying to find a way out, only to find that inside the door was still the safest for now.
They sat in front of the mirror, holding the paper up to the shimmering surface and waited for it to fade into the room like everything else did. But it did not fade, as they could not help but keep reading the words, even in the inverse that mirrors provide.
Eventually, they grew tired, so they made to return the paper to the desk and go back to bed. The gut groaned in response, and those amber eyes widened in terror. Frightened and angry they pulled back their arm and thrust it into the glass, which cracked beneath their hand, and shattered a hole where their head should have shone back.
Beams streaked through the glass, not grey or any color they remembered, closer to the amber that stayed put in these eyes. They looked down at their hand, now hurting worse than their gut did. Another color lay there too, and it was curiously warm. The other hand found the mirror and split a hole right through the middle. The new color came to the surface of their hand again.
Beyond the shattered mirror was another color, and they longed to chase it. A peculiar smell began to fill the room, but they continued to thrust their hands at the glass, widening the hole larger and larger until they might be able to crawl through.
The hole had just widened enough that they could stick their arm through when weariness took over their body, every limb tingling with dreadful cold and clamorous pain. They pulled the arm back, now absolutely covered in the new color, and smelling oddly.
The smell grew more intense, and they decided to go back to bed for now and rest. Their eyes closed against the grey pillow, amber light snaking through the hole.
A clock switches to another grey March day, blocked out by undecorated grey walls of a similar hue.
A desk sits in the corner of a dimly lit room. It has stood empty for a long time now, dust collecting in layers. Nothing adorns the desk other than the clock. There is no chair.
On the other end of the room, a bed sits occupied, tangled grey sheets wrapped around and around and stuffed with crumbs of something rotten. A ringed light sits at the foot, white light peering over with a cold stare. Amber eyes stare at the monochrome room.
Unsteady feet rise and make their way to the desk. They stand and wait. It has no purpose, but it is worth looking at.
Wandering legs abandon the desk and head to the closet, opening the door to find it hollow. They close the door. The ringed light flickers.
An arm reaches for the handle of the second door. They stand there and wait, staring at the handle that is neither cold nor warm. They do not open the door.
Wandering legs go back to bed, and tuck up into the abandoned warmth. The gut is no longer hungry. It forgot how to be hungry. Amber eyes find the ring light. They stare. It’s very white. They stare at the white until it is all they can see. And then it is black.
The clock shifts to another grey March day.
Interview with the Author
1. What inspired you to write this piece? What was your thought process throughout?
To be quite honest I was sitting at my desk fiddling with my thumbs, trying to find the motivation to clean a puddle of spilled coffee when the mirror in the corner of my room caught my eye. Before I realized what i was doing, two hours had passed and I was playing with focus, how the edges of the world go blurry when you look far too hard. And then I wrote this silly little piece.
2. What is your favorite piece of fiction (short story, novel, flash fiction, etc.) that you’ve ever read? Why?
As much as I now loathe the author, The Ocean at the end of the Lane is one of the best short novels I've ever read and I reference it constantly when trying to figure out how to word mysteries so that they don't seem too forced or too vague. It also is just a lovely story and is well worth the three hours it takes to read.
4. If you plan on continuing to write, what are some goals/plans you may have for your future?
I really want to keep working on some smaller projects while world and character building for my major novels. I'm pretty sure it was a Brandon Sanderson lecture that said just like how you can tell the difference between your first time cooking a dish and the tenth, publishers can tell when it's your fifth piece or your thirty-second. So I've mostly been honing craft, and then I hope to publish all these little stories I've got kicking around in my head.