Fungal Halo

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.

When I died, I went to hell, like they always warned I would. I suspect they didn’t think I’d make find such powerful friends and lovers as I have here, however. They taught me new flavors of sin I could not have imagined before, and I thought I’d imagined a lot!

The spine opens, splitting down its length, sweet slime oozing from the opening. The pointed end of a chitinous limb pokes through and works its way slowly out. More emerge along the length of the gash as the first extends, revealing one joint, then another, then another.

In a house full of dolls—each delicately handled, meticulously kept in pristine condition, all kept immaculate in their display cases when not in service—this one stands out with scuffs and gouge marks, creaking joints, fading paint, wrinkled dress, all the signs of ungentle use.

When it comes to summoning demons, most folks think of summoning circles drawn in blood or portals glowing brightly in mid-air. Sure, they’re flashy and the most obvious ways to summon a Big One, but that’s not how most demons arrive here.

With a kiss I break the skin, and my tongue comes alive with the distinctly metallic taste of blood. The electric sensation of life itself dances in my mouth, carried by the flow. She whines and flinches, but my grip holds her firmly in place.

When is a mirror not a mirror? Perhaps when it has been carved into and reshaped and repurposed into a well from which unreality may be drawn.

Is a doll still a doll when its emptiness is all that is put to use, filling it like a bucket from the well and drawing it back?

A witch, experimenting with the dolls she keeps as servants, tweaking how much of them to take away. The emptier they are, the more obedient, the less they get up to mischief, but also, sadly, the less initiative they take and the more supervision they require.

In the first hours of the morning, the mind is still soft and pliable. A clever touch, careful pressing, and you can nudge yourself in a new direction. Daily reshaping, and perhaps eventually you can make of yourself something greater.

Every morning your reflection pains you, reminds you of what you desperately wish you didn’t look like. Something to sour the mood at the start of each day. Shaving helps only a little. Makeup helps a little more. But the mirror haunts you.