by P.S. Gifford
The Image Have you ever looked hard at yourself in the mirror? Deep into your own eyes… And simply stared. And kept on staring until the image became fuzzy. Indistinguishable, hazy, confused… Yet you kept on staring until to realize, finally, to your horror, that it is no longer your own face staring back at you. But it is now the face of a stranger, but not quite, as there is a degree of familiarity in the image… But you cannot place it… It is a distinctively evil face. You long to look away. But find your self obliged to stare deeper still. Both captivated and entranced. Then you grasp that the reflection’s hands are reaching out to you. Spindly, ancient fingers, with long pointed grubby fingernails… You watch on horrified. Yet still unable to move… The hands reach slowly towards you, and you feel as the image is sardonic, convinced it is somehow mocking you… The hands edge closer and closer still. Outstretched. And just as they are about to reach your tender throat, And the claw like nails are about to penetrate into your flesh. You suddenly manage one single blink… And all at once the image in the mirror is again that of your own… You see the look of fear in your own eyes, see the beads of sweat now streaming down your trembling face. Only then do you realize who the image was. Of course… It belonged to the voice inside your head.