Mirrors and Madness

The living room mirror, propped precariously against the wall where the television used to sit before Dion sold it for a ‘sure-thing’ investment, was the epicenter of Rene’s current terror. She stood rigidly before it, hands pressed against the cool glass, her breath fogging the surface in rapid, shallow bursts. Every slight movement in the glass—a shifting shadow from the street lamp outside, the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon sun slicing through the grime-streaked window—was interpreted instantly by her brain as a signal, a coded message.

“They’re signaling, Dion. Look,” she whispered, her voice raspy, unused from hours of silent vigilance. She didn't turn around, afraid that if she broke the connection with the mirror, the watchers behind it would move in. “The flickering in the reflection. It’s Morse code. ‘Get ready to move.’ They know we kept the fuses.”

Dion was draped over the sagging armchair, usually reserved for Uncle Odie until Odie had mistakenly tried to use it as a makeshift raft during a sudden kitchen pipe burst last month. Dion hadn't slept properly in three days. The meth buzz had leveled off into a slow, grinding anxiety, making his already sharp senses excruciatingly sensitive. He hadn’t touched the weed yet today, saving it for when the 'real' confrontation started, but the jittery energy was currently focused inward, fracturing his already thin shield of trust.