Horrid 10. Your Reflection Just Blinked

It’s the oldest rule in the book: your reflection is a slave to your movement. But this morning, as I brushed my teeth, I blinked, and the "Me" in the glass didn't. It stayed wide-eyed, staring at me with an expression of predatory hunger. I froze. It smiled—a slow, wet grin that revealed too many teeth.

Then, it reached out and pressed its hand against the inside of the glass. The mirror didn't feel like cold glass; it sounded like a drumhead being stretched to the breaking point. The "Me" on the other side started to pull, trying to swap places. I can feel my skin becoming cold and flat, my world turning into a silent, silver-grey hallway. My reflection is currently stepping out onto my bathmat, dripping with a liquid that looks like mercury. It’s wearing my robe. It’s picking up my car keys. And I’m trapped in the glass, watching it go live my life, knowing that the next time someone cleans this mirror, they’ll be wiping the smudge of my soul away.