C. R. Tarpey currently lives in Missoula, Montana and is working on undergraduate degrees in creative writing
and literature at the University of Montana. This is C. R.'s first appearance in print, and hopefully not the last.
and literature at the University of Montana. This is C. R.'s first appearance in print, and hopefully not the last.
Shadows of Self C.R. Tarpey
I walk into the bathroom. I had waited as long as I could, making as few trips a day as possible. I notice immediately that
the sheet I had duct-taped over the mirror has fallen from one corner and I avert my eyes. Snatching up the tape left on
the counter for such occurrences, I quickly tape the sheet back up. But not before I see it there: my own face, grinning
maliciously back at me.
I stand in front of the covered mirror. It has been nearly two weeks since this started, and I am not accustomed to my
brief encounters with it. I wonder what it is doing now. Logically, it shouldn't be doing anything, as the sheet keeps the
mirror from reflecting me. When it is uncovered, it still mimics me perfectly except for that evil smile, but I know it doesn't
need me in order to move. It used to follow me around the apartment, but I've since foiled that - the television is
perpetually on so the darkened screen cannot hold a reflection, the face of the microwave covered, and so on. Now, I
suppose, it does nothing but dwell behind that sheet, waiting. Sometimes I wonder that it cannot come out of the mirror;
the duct tape proves to have less hold than I would have expected, and I think it may pick at the edges.
I go back to the small living room and sit down, flipping mindlessly through the channels. It is difficult not to think about it,
not to picture that horrible toothy smile, especially at night. The screen goes black for a few seconds and there it is,
looking out at me. The commercial comes back on and it is gone. I feel my face, just to make sure I am not smiling. I
unplug the television and put it out on the balcony, braving the few seconds of my reflection in the sliding glass door. I go
back inside; but just as I am about to close the blinds, it does something unexpected. It does something that I am not
doing. Its hand steadily rises. It presses a gun to its temple, still grinning. Belatedly, I realize my own hand has risen to
my head and my fingers mimic the shape of the gun. It is almost impossible to turn my eyes away, but I do, and I sweep
the blinds closed. I imagine I can hear it chuckling.
I sit down on the couch, thinking. I cannot allow it to taunt me any longer. I go out to my little storage space and find my
tire iron. It is there too, on the windows of my car and my neighbors' cars.
Back in the bathroom, I face the covered mirror. Adrenaline floods my system as I reach the iron up to pull down the
sheet. It's there, smiling away at me. It has a tire iron too, only it has hooked the iron around the back of its neck and
hangs on with both arms, in a very relaxed manner. I bring the iron up, hesitating out of fear; the smile seems to dare me
to do it. The blunt end lands square on its forehead, hard enough for a couple cracks to spiral out from the blow. It looks
at me for a moment, and though its mouth still smiles, its eyes are briefly stunned. Then they are laughing again. It
angers me. I swing harder, and stumble with the effort. Some of the glass falls out of the mirror. My head aches a little; I
reach my hand up and it comes back bloody. Infuriated, I glare at the mirror. Though its face is shattered, it grins. I
heave the tire iron and I swing. Again, again, again. It drops the tire iron. Blood runs into my eyes. I am too weak to lift
the iron anymore. The tile floor feels cool under my cheek.
I imagine I can hear it chuckling.
I walk into the bathroom. I had waited as long as I could, making as few trips a day as possible. I notice immediately that
the sheet I had duct-taped over the mirror has fallen from one corner and I avert my eyes. Snatching up the tape left on
the counter for such occurrences, I quickly tape the sheet back up. But not before I see it there: my own face, grinning
maliciously back at me.
I stand in front of the covered mirror. It has been nearly two weeks since this started, and I am not accustomed to my
brief encounters with it. I wonder what it is doing now. Logically, it shouldn't be doing anything, as the sheet keeps the
mirror from reflecting me. When it is uncovered, it still mimics me perfectly except for that evil smile, but I know it doesn't
need me in order to move. It used to follow me around the apartment, but I've since foiled that - the television is
perpetually on so the darkened screen cannot hold a reflection, the face of the microwave covered, and so on. Now, I
suppose, it does nothing but dwell behind that sheet, waiting. Sometimes I wonder that it cannot come out of the mirror;
the duct tape proves to have less hold than I would have expected, and I think it may pick at the edges.
I go back to the small living room and sit down, flipping mindlessly through the channels. It is difficult not to think about it,
not to picture that horrible toothy smile, especially at night. The screen goes black for a few seconds and there it is,
looking out at me. The commercial comes back on and it is gone. I feel my face, just to make sure I am not smiling. I
unplug the television and put it out on the balcony, braving the few seconds of my reflection in the sliding glass door. I go
back inside; but just as I am about to close the blinds, it does something unexpected. It does something that I am not
doing. Its hand steadily rises. It presses a gun to its temple, still grinning. Belatedly, I realize my own hand has risen to
my head and my fingers mimic the shape of the gun. It is almost impossible to turn my eyes away, but I do, and I sweep
the blinds closed. I imagine I can hear it chuckling.
I sit down on the couch, thinking. I cannot allow it to taunt me any longer. I go out to my little storage space and find my
tire iron. It is there too, on the windows of my car and my neighbors' cars.
Back in the bathroom, I face the covered mirror. Adrenaline floods my system as I reach the iron up to pull down the
sheet. It's there, smiling away at me. It has a tire iron too, only it has hooked the iron around the back of its neck and
hangs on with both arms, in a very relaxed manner. I bring the iron up, hesitating out of fear; the smile seems to dare me
to do it. The blunt end lands square on its forehead, hard enough for a couple cracks to spiral out from the blow. It looks
at me for a moment, and though its mouth still smiles, its eyes are briefly stunned. Then they are laughing again. It
angers me. I swing harder, and stumble with the effort. Some of the glass falls out of the mirror. My head aches a little; I
reach my hand up and it comes back bloody. Infuriated, I glare at the mirror. Though its face is shattered, it grins. I
heave the tire iron and I swing. Again, again, again. It drops the tire iron. Blood runs into my eyes. I am too weak to lift
the iron anymore. The tile floor feels cool under my cheek.
I imagine I can hear it chuckling.
C.R. Tarpey
