The Beyond

People always tell me that I have my father’s eyes, but I despised my father and the day he died was one of the happiest days of my life. It was a long time ago now, but I remember the face of the police officer that arrived at our doorstep. He was young, couldn’t be more than 30, and his blonde curls were peeking out from under his hat as his dark blue eyes were welling up with tears in preparation for the dreadful news. Well, not so dreadful to me. My mother fell to the floor and sobbed uncontrollably while the young officer attempted to comfort her by gently tapping her shoulder. I stood behind her and suppressed a grin from creeping up my lips.

He was a terrible man who beat his wife so horribly at times that she seemingly forgot to remember his crimes against her. I never did. Every bruise, every cut, and every scratch was another reason for me to wish for his demise. I guess that some wishes do come true.

Unfortunately, I cannot wish away my physical resemblance to him. I gaze at myself in the mirror as I curl my lashes. I like to make my makeup as dark as possible in order to hide the dark brown of his eyes in mine. I have seen many videos online about girls trying to bring out the warmth in coffee brown eyes and how to highlight the beautiful pools of swirling milk chocolate. I do my very best to make them as colorless as possible, nearly obsidian in tone. With a final coat of mascara, I almost appear ghostly with such dark makeup contrasting against my pale skin and mouse brown hair.

I reach for my beige lipstick and notice my hand in the mirror moves a half a second or so behind my own. Perhaps I shouldn’t have stayed up so late last night. Clearly the lack of sleep is creeping up on me. I grab the lipstick and uncap the lid, directing it to my face. Looking back at my reflection, I see the lipstick already on my lips. I jump back and nearly fall backwards into the shower behind me. The reflection does not move. Standing like a statue with its hand holding the lipstick up next to its face.

It appears still, so I move closer watching for any movement. It continues to be locked in position as I lean over the counter towards it. The eyes fixed above my head as I grow closer. I look up, it still looks the same. I hesitantly reach my right hand toward the mirror and place my index finger on the surface. The eyes of the reflection, my father’s eyes, jolt down and look at my finger on the glass. A hand bursts through the glass with an abrasive clashing noise and grabs hold of my wrist. I scratch at the hand, my hand, as it pulls me towards the mirror. I desperately fight, holding onto the counter and kicking the floor to hold my position but the reflection holds tight and I am pulled in.

I expect the glass to cut me as I glide through the frame, but instead a stinging sensation grazes my skin. A feeling of thousands of pin pricks nicking at every inch of my skin. It is not as painful as a slice of a razor, but it is still an itching and burning feeling that causes me to shout in pain and I close my eyes. The mirror snaps and cracks around my form with a pleasant sound, almost like the crunch of a dried leaf in autumn or the sound of a boot crushing fresh snow.

In a moment, the fiery sensation and crackling noises cease and I am in my bathroom again. No, not quite my bathroom. Everything is mirrored. The door that was previously on the left is on the right, the bottle of hand soap is now on the right hand side of the sink instead of the left, and despite there being no mirror in front of me, I see my own reflection. But it is no reflection. It is me, or another me, and she looks terrified.

“We must go,” is all that my reflection says before she grabs my arm and drags me towards the bathroom door.

“Who are you? What is this?” I shout as I fight her grasp. She is much stronger than me.

“There’s no time,” she yells as she swings the bathroom door open.

I expect to see the hallway of our townhouse, but instead I am met with a large, white room with rows and rows of silver metal tables and chairs. The tables are covered with pieces of mirrors and strange, shining liquids in test tubes. The fluorescent lights above the experiments burn brightly, the harsh white burning my eyes. A sterile lab with not a soul in sight.

We are now running past the tables towards a door on the other side of the large room. I look to the sides and see mirrors in various states of completion. In some, I catch a quick glance of myself as I try to keep up with my reflection and in others I see nothing. My reflection quickly jolts to the side and turns down another row of tables and I see a large mirror that is simply missing a frame. In it, I see two versions of myself. Both of their eyes are cut out and there is blood running down their faces.

We are now on the other side of the room and she pulls open a set of wide metal doors. She hurries in and I am dragged after. On the other side, I collide with her as she comes to a sudden stop. I look over her shoulder down a long, colorless hallway of various doors and see a man at the end of the hall. He is wearing a long white coat without any badges or identification. It could almost be a doctor’s costume. I looked up at his face and saw myself. Those mahogany eyes of cruelty.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen yet,” said my father, gazing only at my reflection. “It isn’t supposed to be here.”

“Be here for what?!” I cry out with disdain. My reflection shivers. His cold gaze shifts to me.

“The Realization,” he replies calmly.

My reflection pushes me backwards through the doors and I tumble to the floor. I catch a glimpse of my father rushing down the hall towards us as my reflection helps me to my feet. We sprint away and the girl snatches the double bleeding eye mirror and smashes it on the edge of the table. I shield my face and make a wild circle around the carnage. Her hands are deeply lacerated and blood is rushing in waves and falling to the floor as we run. Despite the pain, she clutches the glass and flings it back at my father who is closing the distance between us. One piece lodges into his upper chest, another slices his left cheek open, but a third, tiny piece finds his left eye. He yelps in pain and falls to his knees, crying out in agony. I keep running. Serves him right.

My reflection leads me to a door and we rush in, quickly slamming it behind us. I take a moment to collect myself and realize that we are in my bathroom again. How did we get back here already? In the rush of the chase, I completely lost track of which direction we had come from and where we had ended up.

“Listen,” my reflection interrupts my thoughts. “I needed to tell someone. They force me to do this."

Blood continues to flow rapidly from her hands. I wonder how she is still standing.

“I don’t have a name and I don’t know how old I am. All I know is to be here, in your mirror, when you are. There is something deeply wrong happening and I need you to help me.”

“But why? For what purpose?” I ask.

The bathroom does appear to be the same, but something about it feels off. Not the crimson liquid dripping from my reflection’s hands, and not even her. Something that I can’t quite place.

“The Beyond. There is more. There is all,” is what she says before she pushes me back through the mirror.

The same burning sensation tickles the back of my head first and slowly flows through the rest of my body as I pass through the mirror once again. The crunch of a leaf. The snow crushing.

I emerge on the other side and smash my head against the shower as I fall to the floor. In a daze, I slowly find my footing and stand facing the mirror. There is no one there. No reflection at all. It’s as if I am invisible. I look down and see the bloody marks left on my blue t-shirt from where she touched me. I look up again and still see nothing.

I turn left to exit the bathroom and open the door. On the other side is not the townhouse hallway, but a large, white room with rows and rows of silver metal tables and chairs.