The looking glass. Funny name for it, implying you can look through it and see something new. But there’s nothing there, only yourself and the things around you. And why would anyone need to look at himself?
Max’s eyes are dark blue. He can see thin flecks of red in the whites, like veins in marble. Eyes roll, marbles roll. A boy made of porcelain with white skin and marbles for eyes. He looks down, trying to catch his reflection doing the same. But when he looks back the eyes are still on him.
The room on the other side of the glass is different. The light is greenish, everything is paler. It looks cold through there. Quiet. Max whispers, “Hello,” but the mirror boy just mouths the word. If Max were to smash a window, its counterpart through the looking glass would shatter without a sound. Cold, quiet, still. Land of the dead.
The mirror door opens and the spectre of his mother appears. From behind him, a voice: What are you doing in here? Admiring yourself? The ghost regards him archly. He turns. His mother has pink cheeks and a kind smile. He reddens and shrugs.
As he leaves the room he does not look back at the mirror.
This is an excerpt from my work-in-progress novel. Another can be found here. Copyright James Knight. All rights reserved.