Mirror Mirror on the Wall.
In this world, mirrors are demons with green eyes. I look into one with a simple dusty brown frame to find a ghost, the girl of dreams, or at other times a witch. But there, in the corner, I squinch at the blurry figure of a small boy. His cheek bones are sucked in tight, encased by scraggly ash-brown hair, melting skin, and innocent dark eyes.
“He’s a mirage,” the witch with crooked yellow teeth whispers, “a figment of your imagination.”
Over the next weeks, only chance brings the small boy with dark eyes into the mirror’s reflection. Sometimes there for a moment, a day, or even a week, but no matter how long, my gaze never steers away when he’s there.
Questions tumble around in my skull. Does he know me? What could he possibly want? Why does he feel familiar?
Today, the girl of dreams appears in front of me alone. Mature with pink cheeks and cherry lips, dark hair stretching down to her full breasts, flawless white skin, and hips that swing with the ocean breeze. But behind her smoky eyes, she looks lost – as if caught like a deer in headlights.
When I was young and saw the girl of dreams, she overflowed with passion. Yet, when I think back, I remember those same eyes, betraying her trust. She swears that days of play once existed for her, and tries so hard to reclaim them, but memory can be eluding.
On a new morning, one of my eyes settles on the boy in a far corner, curled into a ball, looking for relief from a partial existence. Once in a while he gasps for air as if drowning. But if I ignore his body’s convulsions, his eyes exude a golden light that glimmer in the mirror’s reflection. After a moment, I realize that his stare is fixed on the girl of dreams, causing him to hyperventilate. For a moment, his spirit connects to mine, and his daydream whirls into my consciousness. He’s riding on a white horse towards the girl of dreams to rescue her from her own torment. Hoping to find his own full existence within her, and hoping she may find hers within him.
Confusion starts to consume my mind. Am I the girl of dreams or small boy? Sometimes I think I may be the witch. Each character clear yet somehow every day, their images blur more and more, like vines climbing up a wired fence.
Lost in sleep, or maybe a daydream, the boy seeks out the girl of dreams, but she has always just left. Leaving behind a wafting scent of butterscotch candy behind her.
My eyes become glued to the mirror, awaiting the dream’s culmination. Will they crash into each other like two cars, exploding in a magnificent burst of red and yellow flame ultimately becoming ghosts? Will their bodies join in union, in love of passion or on the other hand friendship?
I’ve missed the girl of dreams again, but oh how I love that smell in the air. The mirror begins to crack.