Reflections

Every morning I do it the same way: toothbrush in my right hand, blink ten times, turn my head - left, right, up, down. A stupid little ritual, proof the day is starting properly. The mirror blinks back, as it always does. I finish brushing my teeth and pad barefoot from the bathroom to my bedroom. Half-empty boxes litter the small space. Outside, rain is smacking against the window, the light weak, pallid.

My laptop lies open on my bed; I reach for it, disconnecting it from the charger, and head to the compact kitchen, carefully placing the laptop on the table. I shoot a quick glance at the fridge as I go past, the note I stuck there two weeks ago an attempt at reassurance: “Stay steady. You’re fine now.” Taking a few deep breaths, I log into the laptop, open a new document, and begin to type.

A couple of hours later, and I’ve barely got anything written down. The deadline is next week, but I can’t seem to get my thoughts in order, let alone plan and flesh out an essay. The hum of the fridge is too loud, the lights feel too bright. And the smell of fresh paint is… In a word, this place feels clinical. There’s nothing of me here, nothing to show that the flat is now occupied. The pale walls add to the sterile environment. Sighing, I go to make myself another coffee, and as I pour the water into my mug, my hand trembles. I barely notice it anymore.

After another hour of attempting to write, there’s a notification on my computer. An email, only the senders’ ID visible in the tiny preview window: GP. I hurriedly click the ‘x’ above the notification, and it vanishes.

That night, I wake up, drenched in sweat. The room is dark; so dark I can’t see my hand in front of my face when I raise it. I check the alarm clock on my bedside table: 3.14 AM. Rain is still lashing against the window. Did it even stop raining yesterday? I wonder. Eventually, sleep pulls me back down into unconsciousness.

The next morning, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, toothbrush in my right hand, and blink ten times. On the tenth blink, I swear my reflection blinks a little slower than I did. I shake my head. Just waking up, I tell myself. Then I move my head left, right, up, down. On the last movement of my head - down - it seems - just for a second - that my reflection looks up at me. I must be tired, especially after that bad sleep last night. My mind doesn’t dare consider the other possibility.

By the end of the day, a collection of used and half drunk coffee mugs has accumulated on the kitchen table. It’s late. I check my phone - 12.36 AM. Despite being heavily caffeinated, my brain feels as though it’s swimming in a thick fog. Recognising that my body needs to sleep, I reluctantly close my laptop (admittedly, I’ve done little actual work, but I like to think that if I sit staring at the screen for long enough, inspiration will strike) and get into bed. I scroll through social media on my phone for half an hour, the blue light the only illumination in the room. I am dimly aware that it is raining heavily outside. Yawning, I put my phone on the bedside table, turning over with the thick duvet covering me. The last thought I am aware of having before I drift into sleep is that the shadows under my eyes in my reflection in the bathroom mirror looked darker, more bruised than I realised.

There’s an overload of images, flashing quickly through my brain - bright lights, pale walls, hard glass - and then I jerk awake, gasping for breath. It’s pitch dark, no light coming through the half closed blinds. My heart is hammering in my chest, and as I try to will it back into a steady beat, I reach over to the bedside table and tap the light on the alarm clock. 3.07 AM. Groaning inwardly, I pull the covers over my face, but I know I won’t be sleeping anytime soon. Probably all that coffee yesterday, making my nerves jittery. Pushing the covers back, I resign myself to the significant lack of sleep and decide to just get up and start my day. Besides, I have a little over a week to get the essay submitted. I can afford an earlier night tonight.

Still in my pyjamas, hair tousled, I hold my toothbrush in my right hand and face the bathroom mirror. The shadows left by the harsh lighting appear longer, darker, in the bathroom’s reflection. I quickly push the thought from my mind. Ten blinks, one after another. On the seventh blink I almost drop my toothbrush. The reflection of me in the mirror blinks noticeably slower than I do. Did that just happen? But then doubt creeps in. You’ve had a couple nights of disturbed sleep, I think, surely that can explain it? Maybe I’m so tired I’m registering the reflection’s blinks slower than normal. Yes, that’s it, I tell myself. Taking a deep breath to steady the part of me that was wavering, I continue with the ritual, moving my head left, right, up, then down. This time, when I move my head down, the reflection doesn’t. I tremble, not wanting to believe what I think I’m seeing. I screw my eyes shut, as tight as I can, and count to five.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

My eyes open, already feeling the spike of anxiety…

But the reflection is normal. It’s me. Nothing extraordinary about it.

I sigh, crumpling to my knees in relief.

I spend the rest of the day in a kind of dazed stupor, the combination of shock, fatigue and caffeine blurring my thoughts so that I find it hard to separate them individually, everything jumbled and incoherent. I sit for hours in front of my laptop, staring at the blank screen. Eventually, one thought surfaces in my mind: I need to prove, one way or another, that there is something wrong with my reflection, the mirror, all of it. The answer hits me like a slap in the face. I just need to record my morning ritual on my phone. That way I will have evidence. Irrefutable evidence. Now that I’ve made my mind up, now that I’ve found a way forward, I relax, and the tiredness I’ve been holding at bay comes crashing down on me. Like someone walking into the sea, I let the waves of exhaustion take me down, down, down. Rain patters against the window.

I wake early, too early. The room is swathed in shadows. Rubbing my eyes, I check my phone. 4.26 AM. Suddenly the memory of the previous day shocks me into some semblance of wakefulness, and, feeling determined, if rather anxious, I swing my legs out of bed, grabbing my phone, and head to the bathroom. As I switch on the light, the glare from the LED bulbs sends spots dancing in front of my eyes. Right, I think, time to see if this is really happening. I grip my toothbrush in my right hand. I face the mirror. My phone, in my left hand, is set to record. Taking a deep breath, I hold the phone up, and start my ritual.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

On the sixth blink, there is a noticeably delayed blink from my reflection. Trembling, I keep going.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

On ten, my reflection doesn’t blink.

Fighting rising panic, I continue, moving my head left, right, up, down. This time, when I move my head left, the reflection moves right. When I move right, it moves left. The same thing happens for up and down. The movements are opposite, inverted. I’m breathing shakily now, praying that I’ve managed to get everything down on video. Once it’s over, I run out of the bathroom, slamming the door shut on my way out. Collapsing weakly on my bed, I tap the video icon to see what I recorded. Holding my breath I watch it play. There’s my face in the mirror. The reflection is blinking, but it’s hard to tell if it’s delayed or not without seeing my eyes. Then, the camera tilts left, as I move my head left. Then right, up, down. Hang on, I think, bile rising in my throat, that’s wrong. The video shows the reflection moving its head left, right, up, down, the same as I did. That’s not what happened, that’s not what happened, I repeat desperately to myself. Body shaking, I drop the phone on my bed, my thoughts ricocheting around my head. How did that happen? Why didn’t the video show what really happened? Do I tell someone about this? That question, at least, I can answer. No, it is not a good idea to tell anyone about this. Instinctively, I know this. Concerned phone calls from Mum, the doctor. Best to avoid all that.

Attempting to block out what happened, I sit down at my laptop with the intention of working on my barely-there essay, but this quickly deteriorates to scrolling through social media on my phone. Coffee mugs pile up throughout the day. For what seems like the first time in the two weeks I’ve been living here, I hear footsteps in the flat above mine. Latching onto the sound, I try to work out how many people are making the noise. Only one, I think. Glancing out the window, my mind barely registers that it’s drizzling outside, the noise of the rain drowned out by the constant hum of the fridge.

By the time 4 PM comes around, I feel exhausted, but I’m too on edge to sleep right now. Since what happened this morning, I’ve been in the bathroom only once, and that was with the light on and the door wide open. Now, every time I think of going in there, my heart seems to rise until it’s stuck in my throat, making me think I’m going to choke. My mind grows clouded, yet I feel like a raw, exposed nerve, a live wire. Desperation clawing my emotions into spikes, I do what I should have done hours ago. Picking the empty mugs off the kitchen table and moving my laptop to my bed, I quickly pull off the dark tablecloth that’s been here since before I moved in (Maybe for this very purpose? No, I cannot think that). The hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, I flip the bathroom light on, making sure to open the door fully. Looking anywhere but my reflection, I spread my arms wide, and, standing on tiptoe, tuck the edges of the tablecloth in the small gap at the top of the mirror between the wall and the glass. I’m worried that won’t be enough to hold it, so I back out of the bathroom and return, as fast as I can, with a roll of sellotape I keep in a drawer just in case. Biting off long pieces of the tape, I secure the loose edges of the tablecloth to the glass. When I’m done, I take a step back, and I feel like I’m finally able to draw in a full breath. It’s impossible to see through the opaque, makeshift covering. No reflection visible. Tentatively, I pull on the fabric. No give. I let out a sigh of relief.

That night, I tumble tiredly into bed, feeling that I’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep. It’s almost like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, a tension I didn’t know I was carrying finally gone. Half-smiling to myself, I pull the duvet over me, and the moment my head hits the pillow, I’m out cold.

Until 2.58 AM. Groggily, I sit up, glancing at the time on my phone. Unsure why I’ve woken so early, I turn my head and look out the window. Through the half closed blinds I can just make out the traces of water droplets. But maybe I’m imagining it. I’m about to lie back down and try to go back to sleep when I hear it.

Tap-tap

Tap-tap-tap

Tap-tap

Tap-tap-tap

In my disoriented state, I can only think that it sounds as though a bird has gotten trapped in the flat, has found a window, and is repeatedly hitting that window with its beak. Confused, I think that I don’t remember opening any windows. Especially not in this rain.

Tap-tap

Tap-tap-tap

Tap-tap

Accepting the fact that tonight, I will not get the sleep I’d hoped for, I swing my legs out of the bed and stand up, albeit a little unsteadily. I walk to the bedroom door. And then I stop. Because I know where that sound is coming from.

Tap-tap-tap

Tap-tap

Tap-tap-tap

In that moment, I almost get back into bed, almost hide under the duvet. But I don’t. Slowly, ever so slowly, I take first one step, then another. And another. Until I’m at the bathroom door. The room is inky black.

Tap-tap

Tap-tap-tap

Tap-tap

Quivering, I reach for the light switch. The room floods with brilliance. Eyes slitted against the glare, opening wider as they adjust. The tablecloth is still covering the mirror.

Tap-tap-tap

Tap-tap

Tap-tap-tap

I take a step towards the mirror. It feels like I’m not in control of my body, like it’s moving against my will. I reach up, grasping the tablecloth, held up with weak sellotape, and pull, hard. The cloth falls to the floor. And I see it.

Tap-tap

Tap-tap-tap

Tap-tap

It’s me. My reflection. It’s leaning forward, I’m leaning forward. It’s tapping on the mirror, from inside, with its finger. And it’s staring at me, with eyes so dead and cold I let out a whimper. Still, it keeps tapping. Then it grins at me, a grin wide like a gaping wound, and I see its teeth - so many teeth - jagged and uneven and knife-like. I take a step back, fighting the rising scream that’s threatening to break out of me. It reaches forward, hand outstretched towards the boundary of the mirror.

It pushes through.

BIO: Megan Schadeberg is a Wales-based writer who creates stories of quiet unease. Her obsession with the written word began in childhood, devouring anything she could get her hands on, starting with magical wizards and progressing to dark sci-fi, horror, and fantasy. Later, she spent some time in a psychiatric hospital, where the demons are never far away, and draws inspiration from her experiences there. This is her third major contest submission.

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