My Mirror Staring Back At Me Novels & Stories

I mumble, my head beginning to throb. My eyes blur for a second and I momentarily lose sight of everything, but when my vision returns, I can see everything. There is a mirror sitting against the wall on the other side of the room. I look at my reflection, noticing the disturbing color of my eyes, but they weren't anything I hadn't seen before.

I returned to my room that night and stood in front of the mirror. I used to admire that mirror. It was imported from France and gifted during the simple Luna ceremony. Gilded edges, flawless glass, just like I used to pretend I was. But now, even it looked like it judged me. I touched my reflection—cold fingertips meeting colder eyes. My smile held, but just barely.

Something mundane and extraordinary at the same time. Steam from the hot shower still lingers in the air, but it’s beginning to dissipate. The scalding water helped relax my tense muscles, but it couldn’t wash away the weight I still carry under my skin. I take a deep breath and face the mirror. The mirror doesn’t lie. That’s the thing about mirrors I’ve learned to fear—theyon’t have the courtesy to soften or edit. They just show what is, with cold precision. The woman staring back at me is unrecognizable and completely familiar at the same time.

I look away, unable to face him. Yet his cold grey eyes continue to stare at me. “Look up.” My breath catches. “See yourself.” He commands. I gather whatever courage I have left and obey.He moves back from me, still towering over me, and that's when I notice what he was talking about. A mirror. On the ceiling. A massive mirror positioned perfectly above the table. A mirror that gives a full view of my plump body lying sprawled across his desk.My cheeks are flushed. My skirt has ridden up, exposing my full thighs.

She smirked, setting out the plates and she proceeded to scoop cups of rice inside the small sack. “It is not about what you think, Yana.” “So, what it is all about?” Yana asked, trying to figure the statement I uttered. “Can we take this mirror off, Yana?” “What do you mean?” Yana wondered, wiping off the bottom part of the rice container before putting it back to its shaft. “Yana,” I came closer to her. “When the mirror has gap, there is a possibility that the mirror is two-way. It means that there might be the back of it can be seen by others from there to here.”

I did a good job, too, because it lay hidden there until my sophomore year when one phone call stripped those masks away, laying bare the Truth so I could see myself for what I was. *** As maybe you can imagine I avoid mirrors as much as possible. Can’t be managed all the time, obviously. I do have to shave, comb my hair and brush my teeth occasionally. There’s also the rear-view mirror in my cab, too. That’s somehow the worst. It focuses on my eyes. Everyone’s heard it by now. It’s used in countless stories, poems and movies when someone wants to sound insightful. Eyes are the windows to the soul. Cliché, but remarkably apt. I hate looking into my eyes. They’re dead and flat, which spooks m

I hear chuckles around me but chose to stay calm. Soon enough, the boys are calm again and I can relax. God, someone let me out of here! ~*~ I stand and stare at my reflection. One song comes to mind, 'Who is that girl I see staring straight back at me? Why is my reflection someone I don't know?' The girl in the mirror has flawless skin, bright wide eyes and heart shaped pouted lips, natural make up with a hint of blusher; which I'm positive won't be needed with all those eyes on me.

She says, helping me in front of the mirror. I turn to look in the mirror, only for my own mouth to drop. The woman staring back at me can't be me. Cause the woman in the mirror is absolutely gorgeous. I turn my head slightly from side to side, as if making sure the image I'm seeing isn't false.

I stumbled to my feet, caught sight of a mirror across the room And froze. A stranger stared back. A man.

“I didn’t expect you to be the killer. It wasn’t enough that you killed your parents-in-law. Why did you have to kill my mother too?” I looked at the three of them. They all had the same reaction. I froze for a moment. How was that possible? A mirror was just a mirror. It showed whoever stood in front of it. How could it show my face no matter who looked into it? But their grief did not look fake. What was so strange about that mirror? How could it make my wife, my trainee, and my neighbor all believe I was the killer? “I didn’t kill your mother. It wasn’t me.”