Come a little closer, Donald. No! Donald backed away from the bank of elevators just as one arrived. The lady in the beige overcoat stepped inside, holding the doors open with one hand. She peeked out, “You going up, honey?” Donald looked from the elevator to the spot where his reflection waited and shook his head. “Suit yourself,” the lady in the overcoat released the elevator doors. They slid closed, sealing Donald’s fate.
Coward, his reflection called after Donald as he retreated into the marble-floored lobby of the professional building and away from the elevator that led to Dr. King’s office. What about the stairs? Should he climb all the way to the twelfth floor? Missing his appointment with Dr. King constitute breach of parole. If his parole officer found out, Donald would be in trouble. He had no choice. Sweat pooled under his armpits; his hands grew clammy. Donald found the door to the stairs at the end of a short, mirror-lined corridor. His reflection laughed, Try it, I dare you.
Looking from one mirrored wall to another, Donald wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. I’m not going in there. I’m not. I’m not. I’m not. Hahahaha, answered his reflection.
“Fuck you!” Donald shouted. The security guard seated behind the counter in the lobby stood up from behind his station to see what was going on. “Sorry,” Donald said, palms raised, “I’m leaving.” What are you looking at? Donald scowled at the passersby on their way into and out of the building, staring at him like he was a madman.
Approaching the revolving doors, Donald saw himself grinning back from their glass surface. Going my way? His reflection teased. Putting his head down, Donald charged through the door, nearly bowling over an elderly man already ensconced in the opposite compartment on his way into the building. “Hey!” the security guard shouted from inside the lobby, but Donald had already spilled out into the city square, beyond the guard’s jurisdiction. He ran anyhow. Chased by the taunts of his reflection.
But in every pane of glass or mirrored surface, Donald glimpsed his pursuer. Matching him stride for stride. Harrying him with that wicked grin. Run, run, fast as you can, the mirror man sang. “I need to get to Dr. King,” Donald tugged at his hair, oblivious to pedestrians edging away from him. Dr. King would have an explanation for this. He’d have a prescription. Something that would convince Donald, at least temporarily, that none of this was real. It couldn’t be real, could it?
Oh, I’m real enough, his reflection answered from the reflective surface of the bus shelter, surprising Donald as he rounded the corner. The question is, Donald, are you real? “Yes, I’m fucking real!” Donald shouted at the man in the glass, kicking it hard enough to splinter him into a hundred webbed fractions.
Poor Donald thinks he’s real, a hundred fragmented voices sang in unison as Donald spun away, bumping into a bag lady and tripping over a panhandler as he retreated from the bus shelter.
“Watch where you’re fucking going,” the panhandler shouted after him.
“Where am I fucking going?” Donald yelled to nobody but himself.
You’re going insane, is where you’re going, his reflection answered from the passenger side mirror of a delivery vehicle parked illegally along the city curb. Donald swerved away from the mirror, colliding with the parcel carrier.
“Insane. Insane. Insane,” Donald sang to himself. Am I? Was he?
Last night when he’d gone to bed, he’d been fine. The pills Dr. King had given him were working. He’d been sleeping well. Staying off the booze and drugs. Avoiding his known associates, just like his probation officer, Mr. Jenkins, had recommended. He’d been checking in at the designated times. Mr. Jenkins said he was doing real good, “Got a good chance of staying out of the slammer for good this time, Donald, if you don’t fuck it all up.” Don’t fuck up. Don’t fuck up. Don’t fuck up.
But this morning, he’d looked at himself in the mirror and that had fucked him up. Fucked him up good. What are you looking at, loser?
“Me?”
Who the fuck else you see? His reflection asked. Donald glanced over his shoulder, but of course there was no one. It was a private suite. His bathroom. No guests. No known associates. No trouble. Just Donald living the straight and narrow. Living clean.
Clean? Who you kidding? Look at you! “I’m clean, man,” Donald argued, flinching when he realized he’d spoken aloud. Be cool. Be cool. Be cool. He reminded himself. Don’t set off the neighbours. Don’t want them calling the cops. Straight and narrow. No disturbances. “I ain’t done nothing,” Donald said in a hushed voice. “Ain’t put no shit in my veins this time.”
Don’t kid yourself, freak show. It’s not the dope fucked you up. Not the drugs poisoned your brain. That organ toxic long before you started pumping junk into your veins. It’s not the chemicals make you crazy. They just the shit you use to control the volume on the crazy already in your head.
“That ain’t true! That ain’t right. Mr. Jenkins says I’m doing real good. Dr. King said so too.”
You don’t believe them, do you, Donald? You know they just saying that cause they can’t see what shit you got going on inside your head. Shit like talking to strangers in the fucking mirror. Donald closed his eyes and shook his head. Focus. Focus. Focus. He chanted to himself before opening his eyes to confront his sneering reflection. “You’re not a stranger. I’m just talking to myself, is all.”
Nothing crazy about that, his reflection’s reply edged with sarcasm.
“Only crazy if I listen to you. Only crazy if I don’t know I’m talking to myself. Dr. King says I gotta distinguish the voices in my head from reality.”
Oh, I’m real Donald. Donald suppressed a shiver. Too many drugs, man! He was clean now but the drugs he’d been using to self medicate the past five years into oblivion had left his brain a broken-down house of horrors haunted by a legion of chemically induced phantoms wandering its corridors, their hungry voices echoing through the ruins. Look at me, Donald. I’m the you you could have been. Should have been. If you hadn’t gone and fucked it all up.
Donald pulled at his hair, willing himself to think. To clear his head. Where’s my meds? It was time for his morning meds was all. A couple of the pills Dr. King had prescribed him and his reflection in the mirror would shut the fuck up and let him be. No, I won’t, Donald. And the pills, I threw them out. Flushed them while you slept.
“The fuck you did!” Donald tore open the medicine cabinet and clawed through the bottles searching for the antipsychotics that Dr. King had prescribed. The clear yellow bottle was empty. “No,” Donald said, “Not possible. I must have done it myself.”
While you were sleeping, Donald? While you were on the straight and narrow? If you flushed them, why don’t you remember it?
Donald slammed the bottle down on the edge of the sink. “I DON’T FUCKING KNOW, OKAY?” he screamed.
Easy Donald! Keep it together. Don’t want the neighbours thinking there’s a disturbance here, do you? Wouldn’t want them calling the cops.
Donald rubbed his temples. I’m calm. I’m calm. I’m calm. He practiced the deep breathing Dr. King had taught him for when things got out of hand. Breathing into the belly. Four beats inhale. Four beats hold. Four beats exhale. Four beats hold. And repeat. It worked. It calmed him down. It calmed down the mirror man, too. His reflection was breathing deeply. Too busy breathing to talk. Donald liked it better that way. His reflection looked peaceful, eyes closed, inhaling and exhaling through his nose, nostrils flaring a bit with each breath, a faint smile on his lips. Zen like.
Wait! A chill ran down Donald’s spine. Eyes closed? How could he be looking at his own reflection if his eyes were closed? The mirror man’s eyes opened wide, stabbing into Donald’s soul. Because I’m not you, Donald! Now cut the bullshit. I know things that you don’t know. Things you’re too fucked up to understand. Like the fact that you belong in here and I belong out there.
“No, I don’t. Dr. King said I’m doing much better. Mr. Jenkins said if I just keep out of trouble…”
You believe those jerk offs? What do they know? Jenkins is a lush. He’ll die in a DUI next fall. And King’s hard drive is full of kiddie porn. He’s going to get busted and stripped of his license. Who’s going to help you then?
“That’s not true. You can’t know that. I’m just talking to my reflection.”
Look again Donald. You haven’t shaved in days. And when’s the last time you ran a comb through your hair? So? Donald looked at his reflection in the mirror and jerked back with a start. His reflection’s hair looked freshly cut, like he’d just come from the barber. And maybe he’d gotten a shave too; his face was smooth and clean, the way only a razor can do. Only Donald didn’t keep any razors for obvious reasons. He raised a hand to touch the baby-soft skin of his cheek but instead encountered three day’s worth of prickly stubble. How was it possible? I told you, Donald, I am not you.
“No. No. No,” Donald shook his head. “You’re not real; I’m just having an episode. Hallucinating.”
Oh, Donald. It’s true, you are certifiable. But just because you’re insane does not mean I’m not real.
“What do you want?”
I want to trade places with you, Donald.
“No,” Donald straightened and took a step away from the mirror.
You can’t hack it out there in the world, Donald. You’re just going back to lock up sooner or later. Judging by the look of you, sooner.
“The fuck I am.”
You know it’s true. You can feel it. The world’s too much for you. Too big. Too unpredictable. Too chaotic. You need a confined space. A controlled space. Like I have here. I can give you that. And in exchange, you can let me out into your world. Your life. Your body. I’ll use it better than you ever could, Donald.
“You can’t do that,” Donald said, edging away, but he wasn’t sure if that was true.
Look at you, Donald. You had a life out there, and you wasted it. Fucked it up. You can’t hack it out there. You’ll be safer in here, away from it all. And me, I will thrive out there. I don’t need Dr. King to keep my shit together or Mr. Jenkins checking in to make sure I’m not going off the rails. I don’t need the chemicals, the sedatives, the relaxants, the stimulants, the antipsychotics, the uppers, the downers, the heroin.
“Leave me alone,” Donald pointed from the bathroom doorway. “You belong in there.”
But we’re the same. You said so yourself. I’m just your reflection. You’re just talking to yourself. What’s the difference if we change places?
“Fuck you, man,” Donald spat. “You’re not fooling me.”
He grabbed the bathroom door. You can’t run from me, Donald. Donald slammed the bathroom door so hard that the drywall at the top left-hand corner of the doorway cracked. A few yellowed paint chips that had once been ivory flaked off and fell to the floor like tarnished snow.
“Fuck!” Donald sagged against the closed bathroom door, shivering. I need help. Need my meds. Donald knew he looked a mess, but he was not going back into the bathroom until he’d taken his antipsychotics. He just needed to get to Dr. King’s office.
Steady. Steady. Steady. Donald chanted to himself as he rose, hands trembling, to gather his keys and wallet, and transit pass. Making sure he had his shit together before stepping out into the noise and light of the world beyond his apartment.
It’s scary out there, isn’t it? Donald’s head jerked up at the sound of the voice, and he saw his perfectly composed, well-groomed reflection in the mirror beside the door.
“Fuck you!” Donald tore the mirror off the wall and threw it across the room, where it shattered on the floor. Then he flung open his door and hurried out into the hallway, putting distance between himself and the scattering of silver shards.
Dr. King, he told himself. It was not so hard. One bus. Twenty minutes. Then a few blocks’ walk. He could hold himself together that long. He slouched into a window seat. People were staring at him in his pajama pants, a jean jacket thrown over his T-shirt. Unshaven. Bedhead. So, the fuck what? He wasn’t being disruptive. He was on the straight and narrow. Just a bit frayed around the edges. He wasn’t coming undone; he was keeping it together. Fuck the man in the mirror. Donald could do this. He could make it work. He belonged out here.
Bullshit! Donald jumped out of his seat away from his reflection in the bus window. Look at you. Can’t even take the bus without freaking out.
“I’m not freaking out,” Donald hissed under his breath, turning to see the other bus riders staring at him. “What?” Donald said to them. “I’m not freaking out!” He turned away from the window and decided to stay standing, holding onto the pole until his stop arrived.
You can’t get away from me, Donald, his reflection in the glass of the bus doors said as Donald prepared to step off. I’m always with you. Then the doors swung open, and his reflection was gone. Donald hurried off the bus and onto the sidewalk. Only to be confronted with his image now grinning at him from the store window.
“Not real. Not real. Not real,” Donald muttered as he turned away and hurried toward Dr. King’s office.
If I’m not real, then why are you running away? His reflection asked, following Donald from one storefront to the next.
People were looking at him as he passed. Hold it together. Hold it together. Hold it together. Donald stopped talking to the man in the mirror, kept his head down and made for Dr. King’s professional building. But what he hadn’t anticipated, hadn’t really considered, were all the mirrors in the lobby. His reflection waiting for him right beside the elevator doors. That’s it, Donald. Just step close enough that I can reach out and change places with you.
No! Donald’s feet froze on the hard marble floor. The elevator to Dr. King’s office so near but unreachable. And that’s how Donald found himself hurrying down the city sidewalk away from the sanctuary of Dr. King’s office, unable to make his appointment. Unable to refill his prescription. And then at the bus stop, unable to board the bus home. Chased from every storefront by his own reflection. Startled by it in the side mirror of the delivery truck.
“Get the fuck out of my way,” Donald shoved the deliveryman in brown uniform hard, knocking the surprised man to the ground.
“Hey, stop!” Glancing over his shoulder, Donald saw a cop on the corner coming his way. He’d witnessed Donald knocking the delivery driver down.
“Fuck.”
“Stop right there,” the cop called.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Donald ran. The cop paused a moment beside the delivery driver, making sure he was not hurt before continuing pursuit. Donald’s reflection grinned at him from a café window as he passed. See, Donald? So much for the straight and narrow. They’re going to lock you up for sure now.
“It’s just a reflection,” Donald panted, trying to ignore the mirror man. “Just got my wires crossed.” Donald rounded a street corner. Out of sight of the pursuing officer, half a block down, Donald ducked into an alleyway. For a moment, Donald thought he might get free of the cop. Maybe even free of the mirror man. But he had only got a few steps into the graffitied passage when his feet tangled on something. He tripped into the stack of black plastic bags lining the alley, spilling their stinking contents into the lane. When he came to rest amidst the refuse, he caught a flash of reflected light at his shoulder and discovered he had fallen against an old vanity mirror that someone had discarded, buried here among the bags. And in that tarnished mirror, he found himself face-to-face with his reflection. His mirror self was splitting its face, smiling, and Donald knew for a fact that he wasn’t smiling back.
Hi Donald. Time to trade places. The police officer ran past the alleyway without hearing Donald’s scream. Not that he could have helped. The mirror man reached out an arm that looked exactly like Donald’s arm. It rippled through the scuffed silver surface of the mirror and out past the frame, closing upon Donald’s shoulder like a rain of glass shards shooting through his body. The whole world rippled, consumed by the jarring sound of shattering glass. And in one disorienting, nauseating moment, Donald’s whole world shifted. One minute he was looking into the mirror, the next he was looking out at the refuse-strewn alleyway. And himself. Only instead of dishevelled and discombobulated, the Donald standing up out of the garbage bags, brushing himself off, looked cool, collected and put together. Clean-shaven, hair immaculate.
“Ah, that’s better,” Donald smiled, adjusted his shirt collar, and looked back at his unkempt reflection in the mirror. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Help! His reflection shouted.
Donald smiled, “They can’t hear you.”
Let me out!
“No, I think it’s better this way for the both of us. At least, I think it will probably be better for you. It will certainly be better for me.” That smile again.
Fuck you!
“Sorry,” Donald apologized, “I can’t keep talking to you. People will think I’ve lost it.” So saying, he turned away. His bedraggled, unshaven reflection watched Donald exit the alley, leaving him alone, surrounded by black plastic garbage bags.
Donald strode out into the world, a skip in his step, a smirk on his face. His reflection watched from every mirror, from every pane of glass. Watched Donald wearing his face, but wearing it better. Watched Donald living his life, but living it better. Trapped in a prison of glass, Donald’s reflection watched and wept.