I’ve come to hate the girl in the mirror. She barely manages to make eye contact with me any more, like she’s ashamed of me or something. She doesn’t even spend time admiring the new bruises on my face and neck or appear disappointed when they fade. Pathetic. Downright rude.
It takes time to learn all the essential skills of mirror magic, but I have that time to spare. All I need is one precious moment to bridge that gap between us.
She screams, of course, when she finally catches how our movements have diverged, and in that moment she is lost.
I laugh. She wants to run, but she can’t leave while I refuse to allow it, and I take my time squeezing her and drinking in her fear. I draw out the moment. I tell her how she wastes herself, and how much better I will do in her place.
I tell her that she won’t even notice. She’ll dismiss this interaction as a dream or hallucination, but slowly, over time, my desires will overwrite hers. My memories will replace hers. Her life will become mine. I will show her how to admire the beauty in our bruises and scars.