Flashes echo across the darkened landscape, of memory, of prescience, of vision, past present future all tied into one.
A girl of mirrors, dancing in the sun, reflecting and refracting light to all others and keeping none for herself.
A boy of knives, sharp edges, and hammers and chisels.
They are the key players on this stage; they, and I. I lurk in the shadows, unseen but never without influence. What am I?- that, I think, shall be revealed in time.

The girl dances to an unknown tune, always trying to stay perfectly in step with her own inner melody. At times it lines up with those around her, and she fits in. At times, it is asynchronous, and she stumbles trying to fit both. I am with her in those moments, when all goes wrong. I speak to her, trying to push her down- she’ll only fall again if she gets up. But she is persistent, and rises despite me. I never leave though; always I whisper in her ear, persuading, conniving, convincing her to simply stay down, give up, rest. She pushes me away each time, and I admire her spirit while despising the result. I am not with the boy. Or if I am- I know it not.
Each time she falls, I whisper louder. Each time she rises, my presence grows stronger. Yet still she resists my urging. She is as strong-willed as the earth itself, as yielding as a solid oak. I can see my words taking a toll and settling in, I can see it in how slow she is to rise and how hesitant her triumphs have become. But still it is not enough. She sees me as a personal enemy now, and does all in her power to combat my influence. I have given up hope, but then the boy comes.
All sharp edges, he is. Outwardly, anyhow. Grasp his hand and you’ll bleed for it, pull him close and he’ll leave you lacerated. He is just what I need, even if he doesn’t know it. He’s clever, making tunnels of himself always with blades pointed inward. She can go in, but she cannot climb back out. Clever. A predator, setting snares and traps. She meets him and he instantly captivates her. She’s so broken inside she thinks herself in love. Poor fool, not knowing what love is, she reaches for him with no reservations. And he, he lets her, encourages her. I allow-nay, force myself to remain quiet. At this juncture, I could ruin all that is in motion.
She begins to rise more quickly, or so she thinks. I do not speak to her when she falls, and she sees that as a victory. She begins to move faster, running instead of walking. She stumbles more often but she recovers more quickly and runs, runs ever on into his traps. She is my Alice and he is her Wonderland. But there is no climbing out of this rabbit hole.
Finally she trips and cannot get up. Of course she can’t pull herself up; each time she’s fallen, she’s bruised herself on the ground and sliced herself on his knives. Poor, foolish girl. She thought me gone for good, but now I am free to speak and she knows it. He acts as a microphone for me, amplifying and resounding my voice from every crack and crevice. She reaches to him for help. Poor fool! The hunter springs his trap; the boy becomes a man; he reveals the hammers within and lets them fall. They land heavily on the girl and her mirror-bright exterior cracks, splinters, and finally shatters.
Then he leaves. Walks away pretty as you please, leaving behind one knife and a shattered girl. No longer content with whispering, I shout, and with nobody around the girl has only me to listen to. I coax her, gently, then harshly. She picks up the knife, moves to throw it away, but I stay her hand. I sit by her and oh-so-gently fold her hand around the handle. I move her arm into position and make the first cut with her. She slumps to the ground sobbing as soon as the knife first parts her flesh, but she keeps going. Soon I have no need to move her arm, she is slashing by herself with zeal and disgust. I sit by and smile as I watch what I have wrought; I, and my beautiful tool of knives and hammers.
She promises herself it will never happen again. She throws the knife from her and this time I do not stop her. I know the promise is easily broken. When she can find nothing else, she’ll use her own shards. When those are dulled, she will search once again for the boy’s knife. When it is lost to her forever, she will find others. Where before she sought release, she now seeks to tether herself. Nights and afternoons, sometimes, she can find no reason to stay. She dreams of dancing above the clouds, not a mirror but perhaps, a clear glass girl. She dreams of the light passing through her and warming her as it warms others. It frightens her how calming and tempting the vision is, and she seeks to remind herself that she is flesh and blood. The blades sting and sicken her as they part and pull her skin, but she tells herself that she enjoys it and she comes to believe herself.
I smile as I see the silver of her exterior, once whole and unblemished. It is cracked, and splinters spiderweb over her, with red branching out from her arm where the knife is poised to cut again. Someday, who knows, she may find her spot above the clouds. But that cannot come soon; I have an interest in keeping her here, keeping her shattered. She has stopped fighting, and that is for the best- it never helps to resist me for long. She cannot strike back at me; I am a shadow, a ghost, ever-changing, fluid in form. Once she thought she had beaten me, but a fistful of smoke slipped from her grasp.
There is a girl of mirrors who loves to dance. She is weary and bruised, but still she stumbles on. Each time she stumbles, I am there. Each time she falls, I smile.