I stared. And I stared. And I stared some more. Sitting in my dark pit of a room, I stared. That mirror. That old, antique mirror. My mom made me get it. It was dark and musty, made of oak and carved by an esteemed woodworker. She thought it would make the perfect fit in my pink room; something to liven up the place and fill the empty space next to the only window. I, for one, hated it. I groaned and my tired eyes threatened to close, but I had to keep looking. I had to catch the mirror red-handed; I knew something was off. I stared at my dark complexion, my messily braided hair and red-rimmed eyes from weeks of not sleeping right.

It was beautiful. The mirror, not me. With carvings of flowers, vines, leaves, and small berries intricately etched onto its smooth surface, it was beautiful. A dark beauty, but beauty all the same. There were markings though, in a language I didn’t know: something ancient. Tonight, there was something in it I hadn’t noticed before. Something was different.

A bad feeling surrounded me, and I felt like the carvings were calling out to me. I wanted to trace the wood with my fingers, have the swirls of my fingertips roam the smooth varnished wood. I rolled over onto my stomach and looked at the mirror, pushing my blanket off the bed.

I stared, enraptured by the mirror’s glow. It fizzed and bubbled, while ripples reverberated around the edges. I let out a sigh, perched on the edge of my bed. I blinked. Once. Twice. I was not hallucinating. I couldn’t be. The mirror looked like water, cool and slightly aggressive, and I just sat there, staring, not knowing what to do.

I got up.

Slowly.

Carefully.

I tiptoed on my white carpet, not wanting the hallucination or whatever was happening to end. Wind blew through the room and a soft breeze caressed my face, pulling me closer. I glimpsed something maroon inside and quickly ran to the smooth surface, forgetting about my caution. The mirror looked like a normal, everyday mirror. It was like nothing had ever happened. Fear prickled my stomach, but more than that, the curiosity took over. I crawled into bed, with the thoughts of the mirror consuming me until I finally fell into a restless sleep.

The next night I was ready, with nothing but a folded blanket and a rusty old pair of binoculars. For what, I don’t know, but I wanted to end the odd sensations that came with the mirror once and for all. I waited in front of the mirror sitting on the floor, feeling silly for staring at my reflection for so long. My curiosity had bubbled up to a point where the flash of red was all I could think of. I stared. And I stared. And I stared some more.

All I wanted to know was what the red was. I was ready to give up, chalking up the magical mirror to lack of sleep, when once again, it fizzed and bubbled, turning liquid, but somehow staying upright as if defying gravity. My fingers fumbled for my binoculars, and once in reach, they slowly leaned forward to put the binoculars in the mirror. Wind ripped around me and pulled me back and forth. My world started to spin. I pulled the binoculars back, terror filling my body, but it was too late. Lights flashed around me. Heat and ice filled my body. My throat stung from breathing so hard, and I coughed. I looked around wildly as my hair whipped around me, pulled out from my once-tight braids. My locket danced around my neck, tightening as if it was meant to kill me.

I tried to stand up. Every limb and muscle in my body screamed and I collapsed into a heaping pile on the floor. I started coughing out dust and dirt and sneezing as if I had inhaled pepper. I inhaled and my lungs caught fire. I hacked and tried not to breathe. My skin was burning from touching the ground. I rolled over, the only constant being the heavy maroon surrounding me. Slowly, I reached for my bed frame, but it was gone. Around me there was nothing but pain and fast colors, no ground or ceiling — and seemingly no end. All I knew was that I wasn’t at home, far from it — far enough to know that there was no going back. I drifted off once again.

When I woke up, I was on the floor in my room and the binoculars and blanket were with me. I jumped up, and my body didn’t complain. I marched toward the mirror. I grabbed my lamp and tried to smash it, but the lamp broke, not the mirror. I hit my metal water bottle on the mirror and nothing changed. I put it on the edge of my dresser. I looked for another way to destroy it — I didn’t want to face all that pain and pure agony again. But I longed for a challenge, for something different. A small part of me wished for the mirror to open again. However, fear got the best of me, so I lugged the mirror to the floor, and jumped on top of it, despite its seemingly unbreakable nature. Finally, it smashed into a thousand pieces. I angrily jumped over and over, until all that was left was dust. Despite my best efforts to break it, one shard continues to evade me: a perfect diamond shape. As dawn broke, the mirror glowed and vibrated and the whole thing started again, as if in an endless cycle. I threw the shard out the window, slammed the door shut and ran into the kitchen to be with my mom.

***

Sylvie tugged her dog across the street, but Skittles was too busy sniffing the broken flower pot in front of a pink house to even notice the leash. The stars twinkled in the sky and Sylvie stared, entranced. She needed a moment of peace before returning to her seven siblings and parents in her small, loud house. A smash sounded and she glanced around, tugging once again on the leash. Peace is what she wanted, not the chaos of too many people in one area. Skittles trotted to her, tail wagging, and the two proceeded down the dark street. The wind picked up, and a glass shard came flying out of a window in the pink house. Skittles sprinted to it. Sylvie groaned, but followed speedily, her raven hair whipping around her as she reached her naughty dog, just as he stepped onto the glass and disappeared.