the mirror

There’s a girl in the mirror.

No – that’s not quite right. There’s a reflection. She… she’s not living in my mirror, but she’s there.

I try not to look. Once, I covered it with a scarf; the material was thick enough to conceal it. Later, the scarf had fallen away, torn at the hem. Had it been near an open window, I might’ve thought nothing of it, but the room is windowless. I live alone.

There’s never anything to hear – she says nothing, just watches as though waiting.

Seeing is entrancing. Looking to see my reflection to brush my hair lost me an hour once. I have no true memory. My only recollection is that I awoke and found an hour had past.

After I see her, I feel drained. Of blood, or energy, I don’t know. I only know the feeling.

I have to go.

She is waiting.