2 The Connection Between Madness and Mirrors

"Ry? Are you going to come out soon? Mom hasn't stopped crying over you. I think she'd feel better if you came out of your room."

I didn't answer. I put my pillow over my head to drown out my younger sister's voice, I couldn't stand to hear her right now. Abbi and mom would always say things like that; this persons been worried sick over you, or this persons been crying over you. Do they think telling me will make me feel better? That in the midst of my depression, hearing that my loved ones are crying because of me would make me feel better about things? It just makes the weight on my shoulders heavier. Actually, if I'm completely honest, I don't care what they say either way. Be upset or don't be, my reality stays the same. I stay all alone in my tiny bedroom, staring up at the ceiling.

Two soft taps echoed against the glass exterior of my window, my mother sticking to her same routine. Every day, without fail, a plate of food wrapped in plastic would appear on my windowsill, followed by two taps. I got up from the warm embrace of my bed and walked over to a mirror I had set up in the corner. A small amount of stubble was beginning to sprout on my face, my usually short black hair was starting to look unkempt and messy. I sighed and rested my hand gently on the reflective glass. My mirrored doppelganger gently rested their hand against my own. I balled my hand to a fist and slowly pushed my head up to the cool surface of the mirror. In no time my hot breath fogged up the glass, and my parallel opposite disappeared from my view. I sighed and sat back down on the corner of my bed. I remained still in complete silence as the lighting in my room began to slowly fade into the night. I always kept my lights off, my dad always complained about the electric bill so I got in the habit a few years ago of just using natural light. Since he's dead now, I guess it doesn't matter as much. I drew a deep breath and turned to lie down.

'Why think about it you idiot?! Who gives a shit?!'

Pretty soon after my venture into the solitary world of a recluse, I began to speak with a psychiatrist. He was a lot, to put it lightly. He wanted to know every little thing about me; he wanted me to relive it all. I never even saw his face, but I swear I knew exactly what he looked like. Short and stocky, beard that curled into his lips, probably wore a dress shirt two sizes too small with a stain on the front. The kind of a man you'd avoid, if given the opportunity. Well, there's a major drawback of being cooped up, I don't really have a choice but to listen to his ramblings on the other side of the door. Twice a week, every week, he'd lightly rap his knuckles against my makeshift sanctuary. He'd speak these epic monologues without ever really saying anything worth noting, his voice always dry and bland. It was ironic really, I was the patient but all I ever did was listen to him go on and on. I don't even hear him anymore, I just tune it all out.

On about the third week in, next to my usual plate of food was a small pill bottle. The label had all sorts of instructions and warnings, but of course, I chose to ignore them. I took the cap off of the bottle and pulled the cotton out. I held a small blue pill in between my index finger and my thumb and held it up over my head.

'One little pill! Just one, one, only one! Do you need it, ha! Of course you don't! You're doing great kiddo, where else would you rather be? After all, everything you could ever need is right here.'

I laughed out loud, almost hysterically. I put the pill in my mouth and swallowed it dry. There was nothing funny about it.

In the fourth week, the psychiatrist's dry voice woke me from a dreamless sleep, "Tell me about Abbi, Ryne." My heart dropped. I always ignored, I never answered, but today, I couldn't bring myself to shut up.

"What do you want me to say, fat man? She's too sweet for her own good. She's short, too short, everytime she hugs me she squeezes my stomach in. Oh– the hugs, I always told her no, I always told her not to touch me, but no, she never listens. If I'm crying, if I'm shaking, I can guarantee you that girl would find me and hold me against my will. She wears way too much of mom's perfume and mom always just lets her get away with it. She's always smiling, always happy. She has no idea what it's like to be me, not even for a second." I sighed and caught my breath. For once, the man was silent on the other side of the door, save for his wheezing breaths.

"The worst part about Abbi is how much of an idiot she is. Despite me being myself, she always wants to be around me. She always wants to touch me. She always has to be there." Tears began to pour from my eyes.

The man cleared his throat and spoke, "Do you resent her for caring, Ryne?"

'Well? Do you?'

I lost it. "Leave me alone!" I screamed. I kicked my bed frame, I punched my pillow.

'Full blown temper tantrum. Fitting for a pathetic infant like you.'

I lied face down on my pillow and yelled. "Why can't he just shut his fat mouth?! Why can't he just leave me alone?!"

I grit my teeth and stifled a sob.

"Why do I feel this wringing feeling in my chest?"

He left after that, reinforced by the booming of his dress shoes clanging down the hallway.

I've been on meds for six weeks now, they don't make me feel happy or sad; just numb. The feelings I used to have, the paranoia, the anxiousness, the sadness, they all left; though, their replacements are just as bad, if not worse. When I first locked myself in this room I didn't really have an endgame, I didn't really consider how long I'd be isolated, or how it would affect me. All I knew then is all I know now, that the rest of my house, the rest of my city, my state, my country, my world, they weren't safe. The outside world is full of pain and anguish, and it wasn't for me. After all, I had everything I needed here. A bed, access to food and water, and the bathroom connected to my bedroom. There was no bath or shower, sure, but who cares when I won't ever have to face anyone again anyway. I have no reason to ever need to leave here again. Despite my wishes, all my mom and sister would do is try to include me in things to get me out of my room. They couldn't understand me, I don't even think they tried. I can't go out there, just the thought of it makes my stomach clench. I knew that the people who hurt me couldn't harm me again, but I, I just couldn't bring myself to go out there.

'Your family doesn't get it. Why do they even bother trying? Don't they know how worthless you are?'

I discovered the days would go by so quickly when I was alone, and all too slow when others were involved. When my mother worked and my sister was at school the days were rapid. I never wasted my time when I was alone. I read, I wrote, I slept, and the hours blended to days in what felt like mere moments. Whole novels were written in a span of a few months, an accomplishment that was a lost cause to me knowing no one would ever read them. Though, out of all the days I'd burned through, the ones where my mother stayed home to talk to me dragged on the most.

I'd hear her soft footsteps ascend up the hall, followed by the scraping sound of a stool being dragged to the outside of my door. Then, she'd talk. And talk. And talk.

"I got a new job Ry, we don't have to move."

"It was your aunt's birthday party yesterday, she said she loves you and misses you. We all do, Ry."

"Your favorite band has a concert coming up, Ry. I got three tickets. Me, you, and Abbi. What do you say Ryne?"

I always remained silent. Then, one day, my mom came to my door, sniveling.

"I miss your dad Ry. I– I don't know how to do this without him. We were a team, and now… Have I lost you too Ryne? Have you left me behind too? Do you know how much I hurt? Do you know how much I loved him? How much I love you?" She slurred her words as she talked.

She paused.

"I–I'm s-sorry, go back to bed baby. Mom– mommy loves you."

Her soft footsteps lightly echoed against the floorboards as she walked away. Her stifled sniveling was near silent, but seemed to boom against my eardrums.

'Do you see what you did? Poor thing is shitfaced, she probably can't even live anymore without her red wine. You did that- you broke what was left of her. Are you happy now? Are you proud?'

Hours after my mom left her words still remained, they hung around in the air like a smog.

'You're disgusting.'

When the one year anniversary of my father's death came, a small gathering of my extended family was held. I stayed in my bed and tugged on my hair as my loved ones grieved a mere 25 feet away from my room. My instinct was to leave my bed, to hold my sister's hand, to embrace my mother, to wipe the tears from their eyes with my shaky hands.

'What do you plan on doing? Do you really think seeing you, of all people, would make them less sad? You're nothing to them. You're worthless.'

I rolled out of bed and stared at my door. It's crazy how intimidating a dead tree can be to a fragile mind. Most people would see a simple door and think nothing of opening it. They'd have no worry of what potential horrors laid in wait on the other side of its smooth oak frame; to them a door is simply a door. I wish I could be as carefree as they are. As I stared at what for months had been my enemy, I found my stocky frame began to waver. My hands shook, my toes curled, my stomach ached, but still, I dug deep within myself and pulled out a lost feeling from my heart. My quaking hand slowly reached out to grab the door knob. The cold ball of steel seemed to mock me as I trembled, the keyhole laughed and squeaky giggles escaped from the hinges, but still, I took a deep breath and opened the door. I nervously peeked through the narrow gap into the hallway. There was a young girl at the end, cheap mascara ran down her cheeks as she tightly clutched a photo to her chest. Before I could escape back to my sanctuary, our eyes met. The picture frame dropped from her embrace and abruptly shattered against the floor. Tears swelled in my eyes when I realized I didn't even recognize my own sister. Then, when I saw who was in the picture she so desperately had clung to, streams of salt sprang fresh over my face. I slammed my door shut, ran back to my bed and slammed my fists into my pillow.

'You're a joke. You're not worth her tears. You're not worth her sadness.'

My anger began to supersede all else as I began to realize just how long I had been alone in my room. I looked in my mirror and noticed the stubble on my chin had grown to a full beard, my usually short and straight hair had grown long and matted. My reflection pointed at me and laughed.

'Look at you! Literal filth! What a joke!'

I swung at the man in the mirror as he continued to laugh at me. Blood began to pour from my knuckles as I pounded into the frame. Large chunks of glass multiplied the parallel versions of myself, each shard's laughter grew louder as the fragments were painted in red.

'What a pathetic little shit.'

'Why are you even here?! End it!'

I grew even more livid when I couldn't survey my thoughts for an answer. As I glared down at the red fragments of glass I began to calm down. I imagined my spilt blood didn't belong to me, instead I pictured it as a sign of defeating my lookalike enemy. I sighed and thought out loud. "How did I get this crazy? Was I always this bad?" I paused before sighing again.

"Didn't Abbi know holding a picture of me would make me feel worse?"

I knew I was wrong; I knew I was broken.

A silent scream escaped past my lips. What little semblance of sanity I still held on to began to dissipate. My fingers twitched and my heart raced. I threw myself at my bed and slept.