Day 76 - Reflections

 Reflections 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Michael heard the whispers rise. A long time ago, but they were back and louder.

Once he had hated mirrors. Hated what he saw when he looked. Hated what he didn’t see. He never looked the way he thought he looked. Or should. Or would. He hated liars and mirrors were liars. But mostly, he hated when they told the truth.

Don’t ever look back. You might not like what you find. You might not like what’s looking back.

Michael could outrun a mirror. He couldn’t out run the voices.

The voices spoke in half sentences. Cut off. Partial noise. He could silence them sometimes. But they crept back in. Whispers at first and then louder.

Sitting still, he expected to hear the front door open. Expected to hear feet shuffling down the hall. Michael lived alone. But that didn’t stop the sounds. He heard them before and knew they were still there. He could close his eyes and they would come. Someone approaching. Someone who never arrived.

Who was it that was talking to him? Waiting and watching and walking? Michael yelled and begged and bartered and spoke softly. But it was never a conversation. They, whoever they were, wasn’t having an exchange with Michael. He could listen, but his attempts to speak were met with emptiness. If they wanted something, they were unclear. If he was supposed to do something, the answer wasn’t forthcoming.

Years ago, Michael was on medication and removed all the mirrors from his home. He covered any reflective surface hoping his paranoia would subsite. Now, he felt the opposite. He wanted to know what this was, who this was. He bought mirrors. He wanted reflections. He wanted to see, to know. Whoever it was, they were uneager to acquiesce.

Isolation was the problem. So he had been told. So he believed. Isolation was getting to him. A victim of his own inner mind. The demon within. There were no voices. No whispers. No ghosts living underfoot. That was what he had been told.

A million hours and a million pills and journal entries had never made him believe that. No, not really. If only they could hear what he heard. If only they could sit in his apartment at night, listen to the sounds and experience the feelings he felt. Someone was there, he was sure of it. Creeping. Haunting. Trying to break through whatever barrier separated them.

Michael sat and waited. He was sure it would happen. He just had to give it time. He kept the mirror close so he could see. He kept silent so he could hear. Lost and alone and deep in thought, the whispers would come. Quiet for now, but soon they would grow again.