memorand
The mirror never lies, except when it does. And oh, it was a lying day. A grin stretched where no grin belonged, the shards beneath the skin whispering secrets they didn’t want to keep.
It began with the floor—no, the ceiling—no, both at once, colliding like old enemies reunited in hatred. The face caught between wasn’t mine, but it wore my freckles. The cracking came next, a laugh of glass being stepped on, only wetter, warmer, and far too loud for comfort.
“Fix it,” the clock said, its hands stuck at wrong angles, pointing nowhere but everywhere. I tried, I swear I tried, but fingers don’t bend backward without screaming, and the pieces scattered like frightened mice.
The smile stretched again. Too wide now. The corners reaching for my ears, for my neck. “Stop that,” I told it. It didn’t. My words sank into the grin, and I felt them hit the back of my throat.
Red rivers came, and the dam of bone broke loose. Teeth toppled, skidding across the floor like dice in a rigged game. One landed on six, another on three. I laughed, or maybe it was the mirror laughing, the sound spiraling into a cacophony of grins breaking free.
The walls leaned in, tired of their job. My face folded inward like paper creased too many times. The shards inside me rattled like a box of stolen stars, cutting their way out in slow, deliberate paths.
“Smile,” the ceiling whispered. So I did.
And everything else broke, too.