Rogue Reflection
Today’s post is based on a writing prompt I shared in the exclusive Daily Drafters chat thread: Rogue Reflection. Keep reading to see what I wrote, and to access more writing prompts.
What I wrote below is based on the following writing prompt that was shared in the Daily Drafters chat: Someone's reflection starts acting independently from them in the mirror, as if it's a different person, though it isn't. Write the negotiation between the person and their reflection, or an ongoing conversation they're having. Or write a reflective essay (pun intended) on how you can have a better relationship with your own reflection.
Rogue Reflection
When I retract the wand from my face, I notice a medium-sized black streak of mascara running underneath my lower lashes. Without thinking I rush to wipe the streak away bare-handed, mutating the streak into a large smudge with a fresh, jagged winged tip.
I stare at my reflection in amused horror for a full five seconds before letting out a dry laugh. Of course I would do something like this when I’m already running late.
“Perfect. At least my face matches my linebacker shoulders now. Not that anyone would even notice anyway, since it’s so on theme with the rest of my natural look.”
I grimace at my reflection and let out a deep sigh, resigning myself to my fate.
Now I’ll need to redo the entire right side of my face in record speed without making any more mistakes, as if it that was a real possibility, seeing as how I’m such a klutz and was already supposed to be en route to my dead grandma’s birthday party at the retirement village more than two hours away— the one she had just… ‘retired’ from last week.
Please, don’t ask.
I look away from my traitorous reflection to return the wand to its pink plastic tube, seriously considering giving up on improving my appearance altogether. Possibly forever. Who would care what I looked like today, or any other day, anyway? Mr. O’Shaughnessy, the eighty-seven-year-old bingo leader who arranged this ridiculous party for my grandma because he still had a crush on her?
“You are so pathetic, Sabrina,” I chastise myself, surveying the countertop covered with dozens of useless, and expensive, dirty makeup applicators, gluey tubes, and powdery compacts. “Your grandmother is still getting more action than you. And she’s a corpse. A literal corpse. Maybe you should just think about—”
“Please, stop. Don’t say things like that!”
I look up and see my reflection staring at me, arms crossed in front of her chest.
Reflexively, I look down at my own body to verify it isn’t moving involuntarily. But no, it isn’t.
My thick legs are still standing still and my giant arms are still loose and moving around as my reflection’s arms remain crossed in the mirror.
I can’t see anything below her waist though, so there is no way to tell what her legs are—
Wait. What the hell am I talking about?
She is me. There is no she. Just me.
Or there is no… me?
What the hell is happening?
Am I dreaming?
This has to be a dream.
I reach down and pinch my left arm.
“Ouch!”
I definitely felt that. So no, I’m definitely not dreaming. So what is happen—
“Great. Just great. I’m starting to hallucinate now? Like a full-blown psychopath?!”
I let out a low groan and face my reflection, which only blinks back at me in confusion.
“Aren’t the thick thighs, flat face, giant arms, and linebacker shoulders enough?” I complain to the mirror. “Do I really have to be freakin’ crazy too?”
I shut my eyes before the frustrated tears I’m holding back begin to fall and flail my hand in the air to break up the cloud of maximum hold hairspray fumes still lingering around. They are pretty strong and sticky, possibly toxic too, so it’s worth a shot.
When I open my eyes again, slowly, one at a time, she’s still staring at me with her arms crossed. But this time she has a deeply hurt expression on her face.
“Sabrina, we are not crazy. And we do not look like linebackers. Can you please just stop talking to us like that already? It’s so rude. And untrue. And honestly, I’m sick and tired of hearing it.”
All I can do is blink at her— or us?— in complete bewilderment.
She smiles, a wide and genuine smile with a lot of teeth. A happy smile. A confident smile. A content smile I haven’t seen in… well, probably ever.
“Focus on the dazzling blue in our eyes and the way the red in our thick, shiny curls highlights it. And those cheekbones! So many people would kill for those cheekbones, Sabrina. And don’t forget about the girls.” Her mischievous gaze falls to the modest cleavage peeking out of the top we’re wearing.
“Or,” she continues, “focus on the fact that you bailed on a fun day at the beach to honor your eccentric grandma’s wishes. And how smart and generous and kind you can be. To anyone but us, that is.” She sighs deeply, as if exhausted, then finally releases her crossed arms.
“What’s in here,” she says, pointing to the center of our chest with an index finger, “and in here,” she points to our temple, “shows up here,” she adds, tracing a loose figure-eight around our head and upper torso.
“Don’t forget that how you talk to me here,” she holds her arms out, spanning the mirror, “is how you end up seeing yourself when I’m not around too, okay?”
I have so many questions I need to ask, but when I open my mouth to speak it’s my own lips I see move in the mirror. My lips. The ones attached to my own body. Not hers. The ones’ attached to… anyway, you know what I mean. The mirror has returned to reflecting my own real-time movements back to me again.
She, the talking reflection, is gone. And so is the mascara smudge underneath my eye.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Okay.”
I might revise, edit, or add to this draft in the future. Stay tuned!
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© This work is not available for artificial intelligence (AI) training. All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton; Creighton’s Compositions LLC. The above work is a piece of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Notes and Reflections from the Week: I can’t stop thinking about Stoicism and how people get it all wrong after reading Go Gentle by Maria Semple (book review coming soon!). And I keep wondering where all our women philosophers are today. If you consider yourself one, or know of one, leave a comment or tag yourself! Or share your thoughts on Stocism in a comment below so we can discuss.
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