Through the Looking Glass

Intrigued, I looked over. A pitiful feeling overwhelmed me as I looked into the eyes of a broken soul. You couldn’t see me even though you looked my way. I stared at you closely, as if I was right in front of you. You sat there, in the middle of the room on your chair, with just a desk in front of you. You looked around, eyes wandering over every visual detail as if you were a painter, taking in your surroundings before you picked up your brush.

I stood still, just staring at you through the mirror.

Unexpectedly, you got up from your seat and walked around, even though you didn’t have anywhere to go. Nor was there much space to move. As you moved around, you traced your hands against the edge of the table and made invisible footprints across the cold, grey floor.

You walked over and there you was standing in front of the mirror. My body stiffened, my chest tightened and my heart skipped a few beats. You looked at me, straight into my eyes – except you couldn’t see me.

You looked up, your eyes were soft and blue. As if you spoke to me, I could feel all your pain, your sorrow, your joy, your loneliness and your fire. I touched the mirror that separated us, pressing my fingertips against it. The coldness evaporated, filling each line of my personal ID; my finger print; all four of my fingers and my thumb.

As if you could see right through, or you could sense someone or something behind what wasn’t visible to your human eye, your hand stretched out, rubbing against the glass, creating a trail of smudged strokes. Until you got to me, until maybe you felt the heat. Your hand pressed against the glass, opposite mine. We stood there in a trance; time felt like it had stopped just for that moment.

Then you moved back, leaving my hand exposed and alone. You sat back down on the chair in the middle of the room, with only a table in front of you. I stood there, watching you from behind the mirror, until they came in. They placed you in hand cuffs and took you away.

Leaving me with only your evaporating finger painting on the mirrored canvas.

A flash fiction by 3rd Year Creative Writing student Sharmarni Danials.

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