Writer’s Night 2014-05-03 Part 7

by rdhill316

WARNING: MAY BE TRIGGERY.

Prompt 7: The Empty Mirror

The tears streamed down my face. I was in the dark place again. The hole, I called it. That all-too familiar pressure on my chest, the sense of emptiness. Not knowing whether I wanted to crawl into a closet and shut the world out, or run into the street and scream for help.
I just couldn’t do it any more. I ccouldn’t go on. Not like that. Not empty.
I thought about leaving a note. But who would read it? Nobody who cared. Just another loser who is no longer a burden on the world.
So I went into the bathroom and closed the door. The tears kept coming: heaving, uncontrollable sobs. I looked down at the razor blade in my hand. A horrible, macabre expression pops into my head: “Remember, kids: It’s down the street, not across the block!”. I touch the blade to my wrist, ready to slice the length of my artery. Sobbing.
And then …
“Oh, you pathetic f***.” I hear myself say. Only I haven’t spoken.
“Either stop crying or just do it.” My voice again. From in front of me, I realize.
I look up. My reflection in staring back at me in the mirror. Arms crossed, a glare on my face. I look down, my arms aren’t crossed.
I look back up at the mirror. To my horror, it is empty. Is that what I am? Empty? NOt even a reflection?
“Oh stop it.” I hear myself say, “Stop being so melodramatic.”
I look to my right, where the voice … my voice … is coming from.
I’m standing there, my doppleganger. I feel my brow furrow in confusion.
“What?”
“I’m taking your life. You were going to anyway, so you don’t deserve it. So I’m taking over in the real world, and you get to be the reflection, the shadow. You’ll get used to it; there’s no worries there.”
And then I am on the other side of the mirror, pounding on the glass as my reflection walks out to live my life. I fade as he walks out of view …

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