[ WP ] While looking in the mirror , your reflection smiles and gives you a curt nod without you moving , then returns to normal .

A small room, no windows, no furniture save a bed, a shaggy carpet. That's where I've lived my entire life. I do nothing but sit and wait and stare at the door, an ugly metal thing that makes a horrific screeching whenever it opens. It's the only sound I've ever heard. The only thing I do out there is work. Then back I go to my room to sit and wait and stare. 
 
 I hate that sound. It reminds me of what's out there, what I have to do every time he looks in a mirror. 
 
 A bell sounds off in the distance. I grind my teeth anticipating the screech, the godawful screech, and finally my door tears open. I stand, walking out into the hallway, where I look around for my designated room. On the other side of the hall are doors, each one marked with the names of our reflectors. No one else is out I my section. I am alone. I walk down the hall a ways, find mine and wander in, getting ready for my work. 
 
 One wall of the room has a mirror, and I can see where my reflector is. A hotel room. It's bathroom, to be precise. The opposite wall of my room is a direct reflection of the opposite side of my reflectors room, to ensure the illusion. It's a shabby place, the shower head rusty and the toilet looking like something straight out of the eighties with a wooden toilet seat. In front of the mirror, on both sides, is a sink, grey and filthy like the rest of the room. A razor sits near the faucet. A copy of my reflectors clothes are on the floor. Damn. The clothes are rugged, the white shirt covered in stains, jeans ripped and dirty, no socks, torn and soiled underwear. My reflector's had a rough go of it. I've seen him through break ups, depression, the death of both parents, a fire that gave him-and me-unsightly scars that turned him into a recluse. Last time he looked in a mirror he was in a cop car. The sorrow in my eyes did n't go away even after he left the reflection. I doubt his did either. 
 
 I changed hurriedly, preparing for his entrance. A bell rang, and a section of the floor lit up, indicating where he'd be coming from. I got into position. The light moved, and I followed, my reflector coming into view. We turned in synchronicity to stare at each other. 
 
 Our eyes were tortured, a wretched sadness that I can feel in my gut. We stare at each other, and his mouth begins to work. I match his movements precisely, as is required, as he speaks to me. I've said these words hundreds of times. It's no less painful than before. `` You're worthless,'' we say, `` Nothing at all. Look at you. Sorry sack of shit. Jobless, homeless, a criminal. No friends at all. Disgusting.'' We spit into the sink. `` What are you?'' Our eyes are tearing, and we grab the sink with both hands. Our knuckles turn white. After some time we begin talking again. `` Fuck you,'' we mutter. `` Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU!'' We shout, punching the mirror in anger and frustration. It does n't crack. My reflector's too meek to damage someone else's property, even in a fit of rage. 
 
 I've done this many times. I've watched this man fail at every turn, I watch him in his most intimate moments after his great disappointments. He is always alone, except for me. I am here for him, and yet I can not help him. I am his reflection. I can only mimic what he does. This is what I think about when I'm alone in my room, waiting for him to pass by a mirror again. I should be mad at him. His existence is pain and misery and anguish and thus so is mine. But I do not. I feel for this man, this broken thing, and I want to hug him. I've thought of doing something, anything, to help, but I can not. It is unnatural. I do n't know what would happen to me, or him, if I broke. And so I do nothing but mimic. 
 
 We reach out for the razor, and bring it up to our throats. I grow fearful of what's happening, but suppress it, matching his look of determination. I do n't want to break. We mutter in unison, `` Please God, let this be it.'' We begin to dig into our necks, clinching at the cold of the steel. 
 
 I ca n't take it anymore. His helplessness is not mine. I lower my arm, placing the blade on the sink. He does n't move, and I smile at him. He stares at me, dumbfounded, and I nod to him, a curt nod, hoping he gets my message. `` Are you...'' He looks like he's about to cry. I try to think of something to say, and all I can think of is `` I'm here.'' 
 
 I return to mimicking him as we put the razor down, wash up, and head off to bed. As he leaves the edge of the mirror we turn to look at each other, saying `` Thank you.'' 
 
 He walks out, and so do I. I return to my room, and the door opens gently. 
 
 
 This is my first writing prompt response, and my first post on Reddit period ( I made this account ages ago, but I forgot about it and only recently remembered I had this ). Thank you for reading, and please, if you have any criticisms for my writing, good or bad, pm me. 
 
 
 

