I Found My Sister’s Diary After She Disappeared
I choked back tears and dropped the diary to the ground. The carpet softened its landing and it only made a dull thud. I turned sharply around to face the mirror. It was a fucking mirror. Emma must have lost her sanity. She went crazy from—what?—loneliness or she just had some horrible mental illness that no one ever knew about. My God, she thought she could live in a fucking mirror with her own fucking reflection as her best friend! I was so angry at her for this. I knew it wasn’t her fault, but I was still so mad I wanted to destroy that mirror. When Emma came back—I was convinced she was alive somewhere, living in some mental fantasy world of hers; I didn’t think she really killed herself, geez, she never even killed bugs—I would show her the broken pieces and convince her to get some real help. I believed I still had that power, that authority. I went over to the mirror and there was something wrong but I was so incredibly hurt that I didn’t get it at first. I sat there. I didn’t see it. And then I saw—my reflection was not there.
I heard the tapping noise that had spooked me before I read the diary, the noise that I assumed was outside but my sick brain had attributed it to coming from the mirror. The fucking mirror.
Tapping, like a finger on glass. Trying to get my attention?
My eyes were open so wide they hurt. The mirror was broken, surely, broken like no mirror ever had been. I couldn’t see myself. The tapping grew louder and louder and then it became knocking and then more frantic knocking and then it was full-blown banging. The mirror shook from the banging. Like someone was inside trying to get out. I scrambled to my feet and stumbled backward away from it. I held my breath and stared, unblinking. After two minutes of silence and no activity, I began breathing and blinking and then the glass imploded, shards of it flew in all directions, because something was thrown out of it.