3. The Mirror

The Trader would prove to be right when he told Claude that the mirror he just sold to him would reflect exactly as he was. Claude would end up spending a lot of his time in that mirror, but he did not know it yet.

He admired his reflection intensely, ever since he had brought it home, for it possessed a peculiar charm that pulled him in. He'd ponder over that myth that claimed anyone risked going mad if they'd ever meet themselves, as a double. And that, generally, mirrors show us how we like to be seen, and not objectively. But this mirror he'd bought was one that supposedly showed how he truly was, and not how he should have seen himself. 

He also considered himself lucky. For the Trader said "It's fine. You'll pay for it eventually..." And he simply let him take it. 

His cat disliked it utterly, though. The furball came with that initial curiosity, tail high, snaking its way through his legs. But when it got that first glimpse of it, Lucien hissed and spat that reflection. Perhaps he was not used to seeing himself, and that reaction was to be expected. His back arched and his tail puffed like a squirrel's. With slow movements, being almost stupefied, Lucien backed away, with wide eyes, ever vigilant. He'd avoid the mirror as best as he could from that moment on. He just didn't interact enough with other cats, so this one intruder that suddenly appeared in the mirror only begged for such a reception. 

Claude fixed it so well in his tiny apartment, that he could almost see himself from any angle. From the kitchen, he could see himself while cooking and eating. Like a true gent, he'd serve himself his delicious dishes and half a glass of wine. And at the same time, the mirror would also show that gentleman indeed—who was still him—indulging with all the cookery and drink. 

When he'd sit to write, he'd oftentimes light a candle. As the writers of old. And the mirror imitated. Showing himself like an ancient scribe, laying ink over its sweet lover—paper. 

But most of the times, the mirror would find Claude spread-out on the couch. The room illuminated by the TV only. Shapes and colors would dance in the reflection, while he'd lay motionless, and Lucien would kick in his sleep nearby. 

"Show me at my writing desk more often," he once found himself talking to the mirror. "I can see my features well, no doubt. My pores are clean, my skin smooth, my hair still untouched by winter. But let me see myself perched over my papers evermore." 

Beyond the glass barrier, the other Claude—meaning edualC—uttered silent words and wobbled about in imitation. 

But Claude sometimes felt his reflection stuttered. In other situations, watching his lips, it felt like edualC was saying the words before him, as if Claude was the one imitating and saying what the reflection was telling him to say. 

"Nonsense," and waved his hand at the thought. And the reflection seemed to be slightly behind in mirroring the gesture. 

One night, Joanna came by. She'd read and critique his writing, but they'd also make love on the couch, under TV light. And she was ready that particular evening, but something distracted her. 

"Whoa, that's not you!" She blurted, pointing at edualC. A sharp chill coiled up her spine. 

"Oh, I see you like my new mirror already," Claude quipped, smirking. "Come check it out closer. You know, scientists claim that we don't see our reflection exactly as it is in reality. But the Trader said this mirror was special, that it shows the real you." 

The two poised themselves in front of the shiny silver slab. Beyond the glass stood edualC, with his dark hair, wandering eyes, athletic body, slightly bent over, and annaoJ, golden-haired, black jeans and a green woolen blouse. 

"I'll tell you again," her eyes wide, voice crumbling. "This ain't you. I don't know how, but this mirror..." She drew a wide semi-circle with her hand in the air. "... doesn't feel right with me." 

"What do you mean it's not me? Who could it be?" edualC shrugged, and his copy showed the same perplexity. 

Joanna stretched her had towards the glass barrier and annaoJ imitated her. Claude had his hand in her hair, blanketed by her soft, sun-kissed threads. When the two girls' hands touched, he felt a shiver in his hand, as it came through her body, which shuddered for a second. Joanna immediately pulled her hand and turned away. 

"I just can't," she said. "I don't like this. Something's not right with this thing. Get rid of it. It's making me feel awful. Please believe me, I just don't know how else to put it..." 

Joanna turned into a torrent. She grabbed her gray coat and from the door frame, her ultimatum made Claude's heart combust. 

"Let me know when you've goten rid of it. If not... I guess we'll see each other around in town. Good night." 

Only her scent stayed, while both of them disappeared.

Sleep eluded Claude that night. Partly because of Joanna getting upset, but also because, while peering through the darkness, he noticed unnatural movement in the mirror. He'd dismiss it thinking it was Lucien on a night trek, but it persisted. And it intruded in his sleep. It compelled him to peep and check what was moving about. 

The following day, he could not decide whether it was all a dream, or a false memory. Whether, that time when he got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, the mirror didn't imitate him correctly, or was it just one of those illusions that only happen at the edge of the hypnagogic state? 

Regardless, starting that day, things went awry. It just so happened that, while he was sitting at the desk and writing, edualC was not doing the same. But rather, strutting around in the house, or watching TV. Claude's neck stiffened at the sight. His eyes grew the size of onions and refused to budge. If he didn’t see the inadequacy between reality and reflection, then it simply did not exist. How could such a thing be legitimate? 

As more and more of these improbable events occurred, a strange paradox gripped Claude. I refuse to move from here. So, I’ll write some more. He’d usually easily get tired or bored of writing, where an hour would suffice his hunger for the art. But those days, it was the sheer horror of witnessing a mirror that does not reflect reality, that kept him glued to his desk and papers. His feet would stomp the ground like sewing needles as he’d avoid going to the toilet for times on end. For to reach the bathroom, he’d have to pass by the lying mirror. As an extreme measure, he had to bring out the cat’s litter box, since Lucien also avoided going past the mirror as much as he could. But an evidently swollen belly, desperate meows and his pacing around the house, looking for a secluded corner, meant that the poor creature was suffering and holding in its business, just to avoid that ugly dishonest strip of glass. 

Am I losing my mind? And could Joanna have seen something? And Lucien… it can’t be just because he thinks he sees another cat in there. Something is so off here, but to whom can I talk about it? And what to tell them? Joanna won’t ever step in if I don’t get rid of this thing. Let alone discuss it. No. I can’t have her think I’m some lunatic. Maybe I just need some medicine. Or a drink. Yeah… a little wine alongside a good meal. I’ve fed my soul enough with all the writing. Time to feast the body as well. And feast we shall! 

And with that declaration, he sneered at the other him, the scarcely honorable him reflected from the wall. And a sinister smile returned instead. Claude could only turn his back with haste as a chill akin to a lightning strike permeated his body from head to toes. 

He cooked his meal with the TV turned on loud. He’d sip from his glass of wine every now and then. It felt cool and hazed his thoughts. The internal monologue would get quieter. 

But by the time he put some food in his stomach, Claude was already tipsy. The political debate on TV started to make less and less sense. He couldn’t participate even in his head. 

“Hey, you go to hell!” his voice rang and bounced loudly across the walls. 

Claude froze and had to double-check himself. His fork with food, surely in his mouth. He clasped the metal with his teeth, making sure he feels it, and it clinks. And the food, it was there, he could taste it, chew it, swallow. So, it couldn’t really have been him who shouted that, could it? 

His heart started pounding and a heatwave rushed all over his body, like a fire suddenly started in his guts. He slowly rose his eyes from the plate and glanced at the mirror. He felt his heart pushing against his chest. The blood it sent desperately made him feel nauseous. The adrenaline sobered him up good. 

“Damn you, Stormaer, you bastard liar.” 

There could be no mistaking it, unless his mind went completely. The voice was his, but not his. It came from the mirror. And upon checking it, with blinking eyes, there was no denying. His other self, edualC, was standing there, arms on his shoulders, watching TV, occasionally jeering and pointing fingers at the speakers. 

Claude couldn’t help but think that he agrees with this imposter self. But was it really another entity there with him? Or was he hallucinating in some terrible way? He took another gulp of wine and stood. 

Lucien started scratching at the closet door, his tail up and puffed. Claude crept the door for him, leaving it only slightly open after the cat disappeared in its comfortable, soft darkness. 

Stepping towards the mirror, he pressed his hand across his face, trying to wake up. But no. As he approached, edualC noticed him, pressed his lips and nodded. That made Claude start panting as his jaw dropped. 

Something must have happened. I have become an animal. A mouth-breather. This is not the effect of alcohol. Something clicked badly in my mind, while some semblance of sanity resists somewhere. I hope it fights back. But how? 

“Stormaer and his ilk are all losers, aren’t they?” edualC remarked as he got closer. 

“W-wha’? Who are you? I-I-I mean… yes, t-they are… But what’s happening here?” 

His teeth were clattering as he spoke. Claude cupped his jaw, but it didn’t help. 

“Why are you so scared? It’s me. It’s you. Well sort of. But another you! And I can assist you with your struggles. Yes-yes. I know all about them.” 

Those damned scientists were right. You will go insane from meeting your own self. And we were supposed to be spared from this sort of encounter. But no. Not me. Somehow this mirror indeed seems to create a second self. And while Joanna and even Lucien were intelligent enough to avoid this terrible meeting of their silver copies, I for one, feel compelled to approach. To touch. To talk. To ask questions… what questions do I even ask? 

“What can I ask you? What can you tell me?” 

And will it be me answering? Will my own, now surely degraded mind concoct some replies that it feels like transmitting? Or is this really a conversation with another human being that acts and thinks exactly like me? 

“Claude, you can ask whatever you want. What do you want to know?” 

“Y-you said you could help. How?” 

“With what you do best but you’re tired of doing…” 

“Wh-what? What’s that?” 

“Come on, you know… The writing, maybe? Not to mention the chores… I could relieve you for a while.” 

“I’m fine with everything, thank you!” Claude raised his hand and threw his face sideways. “How could you even do that, though?” his eyes frowned, and arms crossed over his chest. 

“It’s not all in order, is it though?” edualC was approaching him inside the mirror, while he was standing still. 

Claude felt a surge of warmth seeping through his body, up to the back of his head.  

“I could take over for you for a while. I’m rested. You’re not. You need respite. There isn’t any difference between me and you except that I’m vigorous, while you are a tree that was bound to stay evergreen, when in reality, you have skipped several winters of hibernation.” 

A funny fuzzy feeling, like a crown of ticklish thorns encompassed his heart. Behold this entity. The black curls. Eyes eager, ever curious. This allure exudes knowledge perhaps untapped. Perhaps long locked into a worn wooden chest, because its sheer force hidden within would shatter the body that’s supposed to receive it, or its silver-glass containment. 

He didn’t need to tell him to touch him. For Claude reached out unconsciously. 

Some sort of cold handshake took place at that moment. Time seemed to stand still for a palpable second. Things unseen creaked and cracked dubiously. The surrounding temperature fell. 

And suddenly he felt the room enclosing upon him. Ever tighter. The air thin, barely breathable. His field of view narrowed considerably, as if he was wearing horse blinders. He could feel cold, sharp stings, touches of shards, wounds that should bleed but did not, nor were they ever opened. Claude was now inside the mirror, while edualC was walking about his apartment, stretching as if he was loosed from his confinement.  

His eyes widened at this sight. It was himself. But much more. Confident. More arrogant. Energetic. 

Maniacal. While I’m utterly spent, he seems ready to do business. 

“Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. I’m going to help you. Just rest.” 

And as he stretched and twisted his back, edualC sat at the desk and hunched over the amalgamation of papers. Crumpled, scribbled, or just plainly written and neatly arranged, the now accepted imposter finally got to having his way. He’d tsk and smirk and make faces over what was written so far, but he soon started writing.  

From inside the mirror, Claude could only watch around. His side of the apartment changed. It narrowed down. There were only incomplete portions, allowed to the sight by his porthole view. But beyond, his real apartment seemed so roomy. I could place a potted plant there. As soon as he lets me out of here. The narrowness started getting to his brain. Heat waves were washing over his body and breathing became a chore. He tried to wind down, glancing over his reflection who was hard working for some time. Every now and then, the other him would turn around and wink.  

He had been working until late into the night. From the glass prison, Claude could see Lucien’s water and kibble bowl remained untouched. 

When darkness settled, the one believing himself to be Claude stretched over the barely reflected couch. He didn’t feel hunger. But he did reminisce fatigue. When the last of the lights were out, the other him went into the reflected bedroom and closed the door. From inside the mirror, there was nothing to be seen anymore. If the door had been closed, the mirror could not reflect the bedroom, nor the bed. Did it mean that inside the mirror there was no bedroom nor bed? He was too scared at the thought of even trying his side of the closed door and preferred to lay long on his narrow sheet of a couch. He felt as if a part of his mind was brutally plucked away with a set of pliers.

A crisp, bright morning. A wide ray of sunshine found him in his complete bed as he raised half-way. Lucien let a short kitty-growl, stretched, and made a few turns around his waist before collapsing on his lap. 

“Are you hungry?” 

Claude clasped his cat’s furry head in his hand. 

“Yeah, me too. Let’s get something.”  

He allowed himself to smile, and got up. The bedroom door wasn’t closed, and through the opening he could see the other Claude rose from his sheets as well. A sense of contentment filled him, along with curiosity. His back stood up straight, and his jaw unclenched. He was feeling ready for this great day. A childlike grin stretched over his face as he went to check his desk. Glancing over, he could see the mirror was synchronized with him. What a dream… or nightmare? I’m like a cat now. I feel compelled to check. The mind of a writer… 

Then he felt a cheap shot to the chest. That stopped his heart and made him breathe as if the air had gotten thicker all of a sudden. 

On his desk lay a great stack of written pages. Well written pages. He could almost recognize the handwriting. It was his, but not quite. An overwhelming dread embraced him. His heart was racing, pounding as if to open a door, chased by a torrent of hot blood. He stooped over his desk, and started breathing by mouth. A long string of spit started flowing out. Lucien returned his wide-open eyes with visible concern. 

He then looked at the mirror. The other him stood there, cross-armed, his chin up. 

“So, what do you think?” 

“It… it’s good… but…” 

“But what?” 

“Unexpected. I thought I had a bad dream.” 

“Bad? No-no. You may consider it a dream, but it certainly is not bad. Listen, I can help you in other days too. Just like this. Whenever you want it. Don’t be afraid to ask for it. I am not a better version of yourself. I am simply more… fresh. And giving it some time, you’ll see it too.” 

Thus, edualC tempted Claude. For in the days when he was tired and without hope of doing any writing, the two of them would shake hands and in a blink, they would switch sides, and Claude would find himself in the narrow side of the glass once more. The other one was tireless and always had his words about him. The story he worked at for so long was finally pilling up in page numbers. A complete manuscript was in sight. 

He could not, however, allow this go on for long, for he could see Lucien not tolerating edualC even with the passing of time. The poor kitty would not eat properly, and it was necessary for them to keep switching back and forth for his comfort. 

One day Claude stepped out to meet Joanna and show her what he had written. Her eyes widened at the tower of papers. 

“It doesn’t seem to be your writing, though. I’d recognize it out of a thousand. Something feels amiss.” 

“Yes, it may feel a bit different. But it’s just because I’m writing faster now. It’s a first draft sort of thing. I’ll edit later. Right now, I’ve decided I need the story done in its crudest form. Then I’ll improve it.” 

“Not a bad tactic, glad you found your way around your block. Say. Did you get rid of that nasty mirror?” 

“Ugh, not yet. I honestly thought you’ll get to accept it in time. But I guess the day will come. I think I like the mirror. But I like you more.” 

Joanna rewarded him with a kiss. 

“I’m thinking it could make a good gift to someone. I’m waiting on Christmas. Or an anniversary.”

Days would pass in which Claude kept waking inside the tight glass world. He could still see the paper pile rising, however, without him doing anything, and that made him content. 

But. 

One time, his reflection stopped writing and went to lay down on the couch. Claude then shouted from beyond the sheen. 

“Hey. Let me out. I could continue. We’d work faster that way. One writes while the other rests. Plus, I miss Lucien. I don’t even know when I last saw him.” 

“Eh, it’s fine. You’ll get to write too. And the cat… I took care of that.” 

He who was not Claude waved his hand. The one trapped in the mirror, hunched, could do nothing but watch, dreary eyed, and knock as if on a window. 

The impostor then went to handle something which rustled in the kitchen. He took out the garbage bag—something he had never done before. Then picked up Lucien’s bowls and tossed them in, and went out with it all. Claude fell silent. His heart went cold and brittle as glass. With one final heartbeat, it shattered, along with his soul. 

He felt life had slipped away from him. He felt cold and simply displayed as a porcelain figure. A knock on the door reminded him that he and Joanna did not communicate in a long time—how long? Would she be able to save him? Would she be able to call for help? 

The other one got up and glanced at the mirror as he went to open. 

“It’s not her.” He snarked. 

The glass world crumbled upon him and felt dagger like shards stabbing him all over, at the sight of who entered. It was the Trader himself. Shook hands with the impostor reflection, and smiled at him who was stuck. 

Without hesitation, the two of them started unplugging cables from behind the TV. Claude protested with futility from beyond his flat prison. Those charlatans paid no mind to him. 

“Told you you’ll pay for the mirror eventually,” the trader said with a smile. 

“And there was nothing good on it anyway…” 

Claude's fists met nothing but an impenetrable resistance as he pounded on the pane. All the while, his TV was just leaving through the door, held underarm by the Trader, dangling cables trailing behind. 

Countless days had passed in which Claude was deprived of his possessions in such a way. He felt his mind going numb, distancing itself from himself. He was merely a reflection of a real person, condemned to spectator status evermore. The other him was going about ruining his life, in his apartment. 

And then he came in with Joanna at his side. 

“Oh, you still haven’t tossed this mirror out? And what’s all this? Are you redecorating?” 

“Something like that. And don’t worry about the mirror. All I have to do is just cover it.” 

Claude could feel nothing but an abysmal darkness as an impenetrable black veil fell over his narrow world.