The Other Face

She was looking at me as though she could barely see me, I guess that made sense; I couldn’t really see her either. She seemed so far away, I had always been a little freaked out at having two mirrors facing each other anyway. The way that they reflected into each other made me feel like I was in some kind of never ending tunnel. When I had first moved in, getting rid of one of the mirrors in my small bathroom had been my plan. The bathroom was so small as it was though and I had always heard that mirrors make rooms appear larger.

Now though as I watched this girl far through these mirrors, I wasn’t exactly sure how scared to be. Who was she? What was she doing in my mirror?

Finally, after I watched her for a while she waved. I was a little surprised she could see me. I waved back, yelling hello. I didn’t expect a reply, and I didn’t get one. It seemed we couldn’t hear each other. After a minute or so I could see her yelling too. I guess she had the same thought as me. I kept wondering where she was; could she be in another house close by? Maybe she was on the other side of the world, or maybe she wasn’t real at all.

The two mirrors reflected off one another many times before the reflection of the mirror where I could actually see her. It was strange that her reflection was only in that one mirror. So I counted down to where she was. But halfway through the counting she disappeared. I became worried, wondering where she could have been or if she would return. Luckily she did, with something large and white. I finished counting, coming up with twelve. Surprising me she held up what was probably a poster board with a large number thirteen on it.

I looked closely, counting again. I counted twelve again, so I ran off to get something to write on. When I returned to the bathroom, she was no longer there. I counted down to find her, trying to see if that small image looked any different than my bathroom. Strangely I felt so alone at having lost her.

Sadly, as I write this months later, I wonder if she was real at all.


Edward Turner has aspired to be a writer since the age of eight; his work has been shown in Everyday Weirdness, Lyrica and the Westward Quarterly. Along with writing he enjoys spending his time with his wonderful family in Florence, Kentucky.