The next morning, the mirror was perfectly clean again.
One night, Marcus saw himself in the mirror holding a kitchen knife. The version in the glass was grinning-wild-eyed and unhinged. Marcus had no memory of retrieving the blade, but when he looked down, it was in his hand.
He dropped it, shaking, heart racing.
But the smile lingered in the glass.
The days blurred after that. Hunger faded. Sleep became a maze of twisted dreams and distant screams. He no longer trusted the house, but he couldn't leave it. It breathed with him. It watched him.
The reflection spoke in silence: There's only one way to end this.
Marcus sat in front of the mirror, knees tucked to his chest. The knife lay beside him like an old friend. His eyes were sunken. Skin pale. He watched as the man in the mirror leaned in, lips curling into a final smile.
He picked up the blade.
In the mirror, the reflection did the same-grinning wider.
Marcus whispered, "I just want peace."
Then silence fell over the house.
And the mirror?
It only showed an empty room.
The silence didn't last.
At first, it was a low murmur-indistinct whispers curling around him like smoke. Marcus pressed his palms against his ears, rocking slightly, but the voices only grew louder. Shouts. Urgent footsteps. A distant wailing siren.
The mirror before him blurred, colors running like paint in the rain. Instead of the empty room he expected, he saw flashing red and blue lights bathing the walls. He heard a woman screaming-no, several people-voices overlapping, thick with panic.
He shut his eyes tight.
This isn't real. It's just the house. It's just me.
The screech of tires outside pierced the walls. Boots pounded up a stairwell-louder, faster. The front door crashed open. Figures stormed in, shouting orders. Someone grabbed his shoulders roughly, wrenching the knife from his fingers.
Marcus gasped, eyes snapping open-only he wasn't in his house anymore.
He was lying flat on a gurney, strapped down by thick, padded belts. Above him, fluorescent lights flickered in dizzying patterns. His body ached everywhere, his wrists raw from resisting restraints he hadn't even realized he wore.
A woman in blue scrubs leaned over him. Her voice was calm but strained.
"Marcus, can you hear me? You're safe. You're at Mercy Psychiatric Hospital."
Hospital.
The word rattled inside his skull.
Marcus tried to move, but his limbs were sluggish, heavy. A man's voice barked something he couldn't catch. Doors slammed. Machines beeped steadily at his side. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled his nose, burning his throat.
The world was spinning, shifting, splitting.
For a brief moment, he saw Elise standing at the edge of the room, her arms crossed, face hidden in shadow. She didn't move. She didn't smile. She was just... watching.
Tears streamed down Marcus's face. He didn't understand. The house, the job, Elise, the mirror... Were they lies? Dreams? Memories twisted by something broken inside him?
A sharp pinch at his arm an injection sent a warm fog crawling through his veins. The voices softened, blurred.
A doctor, clipboard in hand, murmured to a nurse, "Schizophrenic break. Severe psychosis. Long-term care recommended."
Marcus wanted to scream that they were wrong. That he had lived that life. That he was real. That the mirror had trapped him, stolen everything from him.
But no words came.
He drifted backward into darkness, swallowed by the slow beep of machines and the heavy press of sleep. Somewhere, faintly, he thought he heard the mirror's surface crack-and a soft voice whisper:
"You never left."
And Marcus, with tears drying on his cheeks, finally understood:
He had been a prisoner in his mind all along.
The soft whirring of machines, the muted shuffle of footsteps-it was all too familiar. Marcus blinked in the dim light of his room, eyes heavy as if he hadn't slept in days. His body ached, though he wasn't sure why. The feeling was constant now. He couldn't remember the last time he truly felt whole.
The room, with its white walls and pale curtains, felt cold, like a cage, but somehow not as confining as the house had been. The echo of voices reached him from down the hall. He strained his ears, trying to focus on the words that slipped through the cracks of his foggy mind.
Two voices-young voices-laughter mixed with the more somber tones of a professional.
"I don't know, Dr. Williams," the girl's voice sounded shaky, unsure. "Isn't there something that can help him? He's... different. Ever since we got him here, he's been... fading. It's like he's not even trying anymore."
Marcus' heart lurched. The girl's voice-he recognized it. Was it... his sister?