Mirror Image By Lena Coakley Novels & Stories

Jonathan said. Renz clenched his fist and locked his jaw to keep from striking Jonathan. He glanced away from the old man as he waited for that instant, reactionary surge of anger to dissipate, and he became somewhat distracted by a highly frayed photograph that sat on the nightstand table. It was a very beautiful, smiling young woman. Her long, pale hair was pulled over one shoulder in gentle waves, and she held a small, dark-haired infant fondly in her arms. Despite the poor quality of the image, the woman's wide, pale eyes, heavily fringed with long lashes, were almost violently striking. They were Lena's eyes, and Renz knew immediately that he was staring at an image of her mother.

Staring at myself in front of the mirror, looking at the blonde wig through the mirror that I’ll use on my head, I’m standing in front of the mirror with Lena behind me who put an adorable blonde wig to my head, my mind keeps thinking about how could my love overtake me. I’m wearing a navy coat with a white shirt inside meanwhile, Lena wears a black coat and glasses. If I could describe how us now, we more look like models or rich lesbian couple than drug dealers.

“Can we start a massacre?” (Do as you wish.) He took a couple of steps before he stopped abruptly. Twirled around, he admired his own body up and down. “Huhuhu. Thank you. Today, I look so dashingly handsome. A perfect time to commit a crime.” (You should look into the mirror.) Cole was indeed looking at the mirror while saying so. “Mirrors just show me errors. I mean, my handsome face could be an error to some of us.” (Get to work.)

The mirror came back in pieces and remembered itself wrong before it slid into place. The penlight clicked off. The afterimage burned behind my eyes, a rectangle of white floating over her face. “They didn’t just take your time,” she said, voice a little hoarse. “They made a copy while you were under. Not code. Weight and timing. Muscle memory. They cloned your rhythms and wrote them into someone else. A mirror you. They called this place the mirror cell because they were proud of it.” I sank back onto the bench. The bench complained; my knees did not. That bothered me more than anything.

He dragged her by the jaw and pinned her on the wall. Emily saw her reflection in his lusty eyes and touched her white dress. She clenched her jaw as she pierced her gaze into Cole’s. She grasped the side of her dress. And when she looked to the side, she saw their reflection in a lengthy mirror—Cole, who was holding her on the jaw while his free hand leaned on the wall, and herself, who saw a different her.

he said. She turned to him, genuinely surprised. “You listen more than you talk, don’t you?” He shrugged. “You just have to say the right things.” Inside, soft music played in the background as they walked through rooms filled with oil paintings, abstract pieces, and charcoal sketches. Lena paused in front of one—a portrait of a woman seated by a window, her face half in shadow. “She looks like she’s waiting,” Lena said, her voice barely above a whisper. “For what?” Carson asked, standing beside her.

she whispered in amazement. "She looked like you," Adele corrected gently, reaching out to brush a thumb tenderly under Hannah's chin. "Or rather, you look like her. You're her mirror image. It's honestly incredible." She turned the page, and more photos appeared. Mirada's wedding to Aaron, both of them looking young and happy and so in love. Vacation photos from beaches and mountains. Silly photos where Mirada wore heart-shaped sunglasses and stuck her tongue out at the camera. Pictures of her pregnant, glowing with happiness, her hand resting on her growing belly.

“Why not take it to Rafe?” Mila’s eyes were sharp, almost pleading. “Because he won’t understand. You’re too… volatile, too unpredictable. And they know it. You think the docks were a warning? This…” She hesitated, producing her phone with a trembling hand, “This is worse.” Lena’s eyes narrowed. She took the phone. The screen glowed. A photo. Her face, unmistakable. Eyes cold and amber, hair plastered from rain. The docks. The crates. The symbol.

I said. The mirror woman did not blink. “You’re part of her.” The candles leaned toward the mirror. The house creaked. Almost pleased. Damien’s voice was rough. “Lena, step away from the glass.” I did not. The mirror woman raised one hand. I raised mine without meaning to. Our palms hovered inches apart. Glass between us. Cold radiated from the mirror. So did longing. Not mine. Not fully. It poured out of her like smoke. Grief.

“The Heart created a simulation layered over the real one. This is the echo of what we saved—or what it wants us to see.” They walked through the streets, past ghostlike cars and storefronts frozen mid-motion. A breeze swept through, carrying fragments of sound—laughter, conversation, the static hum of life. It was as if the world was remembering itself. Lena stopped in front of a cracked window and caught her reflection. For a second, she thought it was her—but the eyes in the glass glowed faintly blue, and the lips moved even though she hadn’t. “Adrian,” she whispered. He turned just as the reflection spoke. “You can’t run from what you’ve become.”