Through the Glass

When Isaac awoke, his first thought was not of breakfast, nor was it of the news of the day. He did not, like most, stretch or yawn — he did not lay about in search of the will to stand and face the day. Isaac’s day began like every other day had begun for nearly a century: with an itch. He would, of course, try to ignore the itch. He would succeed for a while, sometimes even for two minutes; those were the good days. But this day was not a good day. On this day, the itch grew to a slow, churning — burning — sensation somewhere deep within him. Within, and without, as the burning turned to scalding. He held out as long as he could and tried everything he knew: he pinched himself, he screamed, he slammed his head against his mattress, he slapped and poked and tried to distract himself with pain.

But today was not a good day.

Isaac couldn’t remember his journey to the Mirror, nor would he recognize the path of destruction he left in his wake when the sun finally set, and liberated him. All he knew was that the burning had stopped, and he could breathe again. As long as he didn’t blink, or move, or allow stray thoughts — there was only the Mirror, now.