I caught my husband choking his own reflection in the bathroom mirror at 3 AM, and the reflection was fighting back.
For the last six months, my husband, Daniel, has banned all mirrors in our house in Chevron Drive.
He told me it was a new interior decor trend he saw in Architectural Digest. He replaced our beautiful vanity mirrors with abstract paintings. He covered the sliding wardrobe doors with opaque wallpaper. He even removed the rearview mirror in his G-Wagon.
"I want to focus on inner beauty, babe," he said, flashing that charming smile that made me fall for him.
I thought he was going through a mid-life crisis. Maybe he was afraid of getting old. I laughed about it with my friends, telling them my husband was behaving like a drama king.
But last night, the laughter stuck in my throat.
I woke up around 2:45 AM because the AC had stopped working, Nepa logic. The heat was unbearable. I turned to wake Daniel but his side of the bed was empty. The sheets were cold.
I saw a faint light coming from the master bathroom. The door was slightly ajar.
I assumed he was using the toilet. But then I heard the sounds.
Thud. Crash. Gasp.
It sounded like two men fighting.
My heart began to hammer against my ribs. Had thieves entered the house? Was my husband ighting an intruder?
I crept out of bed, grabbing a heavy ceramic vase from the side table. I tip-toed to the bathroom door and pushed it open slowly.
What I saw made my brain stop working.
Daniel was standing in front of the only mirror left in the house, a small shaving mirror he had hidden in the cabinet. But he wasn't shaving.
He was being strangled.
His hands were clawing at his own throat, gasping for air. But here is the thing that made me almost wet myself.
His hands were at his sides.
The hands choking him were coming out of the mirror.
Inside the glass, Daniel’s reflection looked furious. The reflection’s face was twisted in rage, its eyes red, its teeth bared like a wild animal. The reflection had reached out of the glass, its solid grip tightening around my real husband’s neck.
"Give... it... back!" the reflection hissed.
It wasn't a whisper. It was a guttural growl that vibrated through the tiles.
The Daniel standing in the bathroom, the one I sleep with, the one who buys me diamonds, was struggling, his eyes rolling back.
"It’s... mine... now!" my husband choked out, trying to pry the glass fingers off his neck.
I screamed.
The sound broke the spell.
The reflection snapped its head toward me. Its eyes met mine.
In that split second, I saw something that chilled my soul. The man in the mirror had the small scar on his left eyebrow. The scar my husband got when we were dating in university.
The man standing in my bathroom did not have the scar.
Suddenly, the "Husband" standing in the room grabbed a heavy perfume bottle and smashed the mirror.
Kpoaaaa!
The glass shattered into a thousand pieces. The hands around his neck vanished instantly.
He stood there, panting, bleeding from where the glass shards had cut him. Then he turned to look at me.
His face was smooth. Too smooth. His expression was blank, like a doll.
"Babe," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Go back to bed. It was a bad dream."
"Who are you?" I whispered, backing away. "You don't have the scar."
He touched his eyebrow. He smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
"The scar is a flaw," he said, taking a step toward me. "I fixed it. I fixed everything. Do you prefer the old broke Daniel, than the new rich Daniel? Choose wisely, Nne."
I ran.
I locked myself in the children's room with my twins.
It has been four hours. He is outside the door. He is whistling a tune, a tune that sounds like breaking glass. He says if I don't come out, he will go and say goodnight to the children.
I realized the truth sitting here in the dark. The man I married is trapped in the broken shards of glass on the bathroom floor. The thing pacing outside my door is the Reflection that stole his life.
I have a hammer in my hand.
If I open the door, do I attack him? Or do I try to find a piece of the mirror to see if my real husband is still there?
What do I do? Help me! #writer #writing #community #facebookpost
For the last six months, my husband, Daniel, has banned all mirrors in our house in Chevron Drive.
He told me it was a new interior decor trend he saw in Architectural Digest. He replaced our beautiful vanity mirrors with abstract paintings. He covered the sliding wardrobe doors with opaque wallpaper. He even removed the rearview mirror in his G-Wagon.
"I want to focus on inner beauty, babe," he said, flashing that charming smile that made me fall for him.
I thought he was going through a mid-life crisis. Maybe he was afraid of getting old. I laughed about it with my friends, telling them my husband was behaving like a drama king.
But last night, the laughter stuck in my throat.
I woke up around 2:45 AM because the AC had stopped working, Nepa logic. The heat was unbearable. I turned to wake Daniel but his side of the bed was empty. The sheets were cold.
I saw a faint light coming from the master bathroom. The door was slightly ajar.
I assumed he was using the toilet. But then I heard the sounds.
Thud. Crash. Gasp.
It sounded like two men fighting.
My heart began to hammer against my ribs. Had thieves entered the house? Was my husband ighting an intruder?
I crept out of bed, grabbing a heavy ceramic vase from the side table. I tip-toed to the bathroom door and pushed it open slowly.
What I saw made my brain stop working.
Daniel was standing in front of the only mirror left in the house, a small shaving mirror he had hidden in the cabinet. But he wasn't shaving.
He was being strangled.
His hands were clawing at his own throat, gasping for air. But here is the thing that made me almost wet myself.
His hands were at his sides.
The hands choking him were coming out of the mirror.
Inside the glass, Daniel’s reflection looked furious. The reflection’s face was twisted in rage, its eyes red, its teeth bared like a wild animal. The reflection had reached out of the glass, its solid grip tightening around my real husband’s neck.
"Give... it... back!" the reflection hissed.
It wasn't a whisper. It was a guttural growl that vibrated through the tiles.
The Daniel standing in the bathroom, the one I sleep with, the one who buys me diamonds, was struggling, his eyes rolling back.
"It’s... mine... now!" my husband choked out, trying to pry the glass fingers off his neck.
I screamed.
The sound broke the spell.
The reflection snapped its head toward me. Its eyes met mine.
In that split second, I saw something that chilled my soul. The man in the mirror had the small scar on his left eyebrow. The scar my husband got when we were dating in university.
The man standing in my bathroom did not have the scar.
Suddenly, the "Husband" standing in the room grabbed a heavy perfume bottle and smashed the mirror.
Kpoaaaa!
The glass shattered into a thousand pieces. The hands around his neck vanished instantly.
He stood there, panting, bleeding from where the glass shards had cut him. Then he turned to look at me.
His face was smooth. Too smooth. His expression was blank, like a doll.
"Babe," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Go back to bed. It was a bad dream."
"Who are you?" I whispered, backing away. "You don't have the scar."
He touched his eyebrow. He smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
"The scar is a flaw," he said, taking a step toward me. "I fixed it. I fixed everything. Do you prefer the old broke Daniel, than the new rich Daniel? Choose wisely, Nne."
I ran.
I locked myself in the children's room with my twins.
It has been four hours. He is outside the door. He is whistling a tune, a tune that sounds like breaking glass. He says if I don't come out, he will go and say goodnight to the children.
I realized the truth sitting here in the dark. The man I married is trapped in the broken shards of glass on the bathroom floor. The thing pacing outside my door is the Reflection that stole his life.
I have a hammer in my hand.
If I open the door, do I attack him? Or do I try to find a piece of the mirror to see if my real husband is still there?
What do I do? Help me! #writer #writing #community #facebookpost
