Mirror in Stone

Dear K,

I trust you not to tell anyone about this. My friends and family don’t know the details of my absence and It’d be best if it remained that way.

I would spend months without leaving my apartment. I worked from home and had groceries delivered to my door. No friends would ever request my presence. Streaming services and Counter-Strike took up most of my free time. I could not dream of stepping outside in the harsh cold. Why would I expose my flesh to death incarnate as weather when I could remain comfortably shut in? Looking through the window, I was greeted by nothing but gray cement covered in muddy snow. Rows of identical drab buildings towering over a desolate landscape. An empty city, forsaken by its own citizens. Tell me, if all that outside has to offer is an apocalyptic wasteland, should I leave my home? No, the world is too cold and aggressively indifferent. Inside, I had my own universe, which was tailored to my own tastes. My apartment was a warm, familiar shelter suspended in a frozen void. As long as I was at home, I’d be safe.

For most of the year, It was hard to tell day apart from night. Weeks blended into each other seamlessly and I drifted through time. My friends and family stopped calling me one by one, and I found myself unable to tell if they were dead or alive. There is no doubt that I occupied the same space in their perspective - if they thought of me at all, that is.

My living room window looked out onto an old public garden, which was separated from the building’s parking lot by a thick, gray wall. I had a good aerial view of both places. The park was still open to the public, but no one visited it, which rendered upkeep utterly meaningless. Or perhaps it was exactly the lack of maintenance that made people avert it. It was a structure abandoned in every sense of the word. Abandoned by people, abandoned by time. Not even rats touched the place, a corrupted capsule of a lost time. Overgrown greenery covered the stone tiles like hair; metal benches and lampposts were at different stages of oxidation; filthy snow permeated the park like blood on a crime scene. Every time I checked, the place would be in a deeper state of decay. I had the habit of looking at the park for a few minutes at a time, analyzing from a distance as if picking at a dead body. Something about its utter rot really captivated me. 

 Initially, I’d feel some sort of compassion towards the place, as if pitying a person. The lack of human interaction will have you personifying benches and trees, I suppose. Slowly, over the years, condolences turned into contempt. I grew to find the park pathetic. A mix of secondhand embarrassment and disgust raised within me whenever I laid eyes on it; I saw an useless corpse that failed at maintaining itself.

It's hard to tell how long I had been trapped in self-isolation when the events important to this account took place. I used to gaze at the park in acts of voyeuristic entertainment, and it was during one of my depraved sessions that an entirely unexpected element wandered into my field of view. A black, human-sized rectangle appeared on the parking lot wall, directly above one of the empty car lots and slightly to the left of a generator. I stared at it in confusion, thinking: “Has that shape always been there? If so, how come I never noticed it? Otherwise, how did it appear on such an arbitrary spot overnight?” I shook my head and looked again - It resembled a sheet of deeply dark tarp cut into a rectangle. No material could be this black. The shape stuck to the wall unassumingly, as if it was trying to act like a natural element to the scene. “Surely…”, I thought, “...I would have noticed if it had always been there. I have been looking at the same site for a long, long time. Could it have slipped me by?”

The black form absorbed my thoughts for the rest of the day, even if I knew it was silly to be so fascinated by a shape on the wall (to this day, I still can’t tell what about it captured me with such strength). I tried to take my mind off it with work and mindless entertainment, but I always went back to the window - It awaited me in the same spot every single time, as if teasing me. 

That night, I dreamt of the black shape. With no physical form, I was a disembodied point of view that inhabited no plane of existence. Only the shape existed in a void of nothingness. The object expanded exponentially at an unimaginable rate, accompanied by a sine wave that increased in volume and pitch, flooding the featureless space as the rectangle achieved overwhelming, incomprehensible proportions. It was the most frightening experience I had ever had up to that point. I feared not for my life. It was “fear” in its purest form, terror in and of itself. 

I woke up drenched in sweat and panting heavily. Still disoriented from regaining physicality, I stumbled towards my bedroom desk and checked my phone: 3:17 a.m. The rectangle’s quiet stillness imprinted in my mind, pulsating. I hurried to the living room and stared through the window once again. The shape was staring back at me, calling me by name. Nothing else made sense and any remnants of logic or reasoning had seeped through the borders of reality. I needed to get closer.

For the first time in longer than I could remember, I left my apartment. In haste, I walked down 7 flights of stairs and stepped barefoot in the ankle-high snow, heading towards the black figure. It was the thick of winter, so it must have been at least -40ºC. I didn’t even consider changing my clothes before heading down; I was dying of cold. If anyone had happened to look through their window at that moment, they would have certainly mistaken me for a ghost; a skinny, pale apparition wearing nothing but a thin nightgown, seemingly insensible to the glacial hell around her. 

I had stopped seeing myself as a person. Whatever mental image I had of myself had already been extinguished for years at that point. I lived as if I were a formless consciousness, or as if my body was nonexistent. To think of “me” was to refer to a dream, to an elusive concept. Only now, with sober eyes and a temporal distance, I understand the absurdity of my mental state. I often catch myself looking back in disbelief at what I considered normalcy. Not even disbelief at times, but disgust. I trust you wouldn’t judge me, but there are some things I’d rather not share.

Warmth washed over me as I approached the rectangle; the object was emanating heat. I walked a little closer and realized it wasn’t a flat shape, but a hole. A hole so dark, it seemed to stretch to impossible lengths into the wall. I stopped only when I was face to face with the dark pit. Its feverish breath overwhelmed me. The entrance had my exact width and height, I noticed.

The heat surrounded my head as I slowly leaned into the hole. I held onto the inner wall and put my right foot inside. The left followed. I was soon completely immersed in the void. An impulse beyond reason guided my body into obscurity. The sounds of wind disappeared behind me, along with my sense of touch. The raspiness of the walls that scraped against my skin faded away. I couldn't see or hear anything, but I kept going. 

For a moment, I was comforted. This pleasant warmth enveloped me in a febrile blanket that could protect me and provide a secure dream from which I’d never wake up. I walked on concrete, but it felt as if I drifted through time itself, disconnected from material existence. Blissfully, I was nothing. 

It was impossible to tell how long had passed when I felt cold again. Suggestions of a faint chill breeze came from a shape of light in the near distance. An image of the outside started to take shape in front of me, framed by the borders of the hole. The blooming trees and vivid grass composed a lovely picture.

Stepping outside, I had to squint my eyes not to have my retinas burned. As my vision adjusted, I realized the unbearable brightness wasn’t only a consequence of leaving an intensely dark space. The sky was of a striking clear blue and the vegetation presented itself so vividly, it was almost unrecognizable. I looked around. Mahogany benches surrounded by well-pruned bushes and blooming trees, whose small yellow flowers fell to the ground and became part of a vast natural carpet. The entire scene was covered in sunshine, as if it had replaced the snow. Not a single soul in sight, not even animals could be seen. A fraction of a stone path peeked from behind the bushes. I followed it into the trees. 

I wasn't used to seeing so many different colors at once. Anywhere I’d look, a new layer of the visible spectrum would reveal itself to me. It was a world I was not familiar with, one of hues I had long forgotten. All I could hear were my own footsteps and the calm rustling of leaves in the wind.

I walked into a beautiful tunnel of trees. The sun rays that punctured the organic ceiling danced on the ground to the rhythm of the swaying foliage. The path ended by a clearing in front of the park’s entrance: a picturesque composition, with the main gate as its central piece. Among bright yellow flowers, a few sparse benches decorated the space, facing outward, as if they were themselves contemplating the trees. Stepping into the clearing, all sounds ceased at once. Stillness. 

You know better than anyone else in our family how averse I am to melodrama, so it is with some shame that I confess: the moment overwhelmed me to the point of tears. I was pulled from the indefinite numbness ingrained in my daily life into a singular instant of beauty. At that moment, on the clearing, surrounded by the park I so vehemently despised, I became real once again. 

The weather remained pleasant during the short walk home. Sunlight reflected off the concrete, coloring the previously drab buildings in warm hues. I arrived at my apartment exhausted and collapsed on the living room couch. I fell into a deep sleep in a matter of seconds. 

A strong headache woke me up in the late afternoon. At first, I felt an awfully damp cold: my own sweaty clothes sticking to my skin. Along with my conscience, nausea and agony rose. Every muscle was sore. Attempting to move would lead to an unbearable burning sensation deep inside my flesh. I could barely keep myself from throwing up from the pain. I sluggishly pushed my body from the couch and staggered towards the bathroom, only to remind myself I had been putting off buying medicine. There wasn’t much I could do besides taking a warm shower, drinking some water and hoping for the best. Hurriedly catching up with work on the computer, the pain slowly dissipated, and, curiously, so did the night before. The entire occurrence became nothing but a faint dream, an unreal impossibility. I was used to it. Forgetting and moving on, forgetting and moving on. 

As unwise as it was to dine microwave pizza after an afternoon of nausea, I was too tired to prepare a proper meal. It was common to be exhausted by the end of a day, but this time was different. I could barely drag my feet towards the kitchen and had to eat slouched on the sofa, instead of standing by the countertop like usual. Why would I be so exhausted if I had slept through the afternoon? I pictured the day before. Waking up, having breakfast, playing Counter-Strike - nothing out of the ordinary. Showering, looking at the park through the window, then lowering my vision. The black shape. The thought exploded inside my skull. I leaned back into the sofa, clenching my teeth as if an effort so futile could stop that pulsating headache. I lost balance getting up and hit my jaw on the living room table, knocking over old cans and food packages. My sight melted into a blur as I crept away. For a moment, I remained seated on the floor, my eyes focusing on and off the blood that dripped from the corner. 

Silence. 

I grew aware of my heartbeat, of the sound of my own breathing, of the complete and utter lifeless silence around me. It felt wrong to become conscious of it; I was revealing a secret kept away from me for my own safety. It had always been this silent, I simply hadn’t noticed. 

This time, I wore boots and warmer clothes. Walking down those flights of stairs was painful, but the image of that impossible depth and the bliss that existed within and beyond it kept me going. I ached for that experience with my entire being. I knew the pit remained, I could feel its calling, even if desire didn’t completely obfuscate my reasoning like it had before.

The hole seemed to have been deformed, its rough rounded shape vaguely suggesting the figure of a fat star. It stared at me in its monolithic stillness as I approached. I fit perfectly once I got rid of my coat, boots and extra layers of clothes. I struggled to set footing on the uneven shape, but the deformity only extended to one or two meters into the hole, at which point the mold morphed back into a rectangular corridor. 

Like before, I gradually lost my senses and succumbed to bliss as the warmth engulfed me. Curiously, even if time held no meaning inside the tunnel, the journey felt like it was taking longer. My sense of time quickly faded in, but before I could question my suddenly regained perception, a bright frame started shining in the distance. 

I followed the same path as before; the beautiful sights and sounds were just as overwhelming. I let the sun caress my skin, I let its light embrace me as I nested in its warmth. It cleared my mind of any thought. If you were to ask my name at that moment, I would have stared at you blankly.

Past the entrance gate, on my short way home, the weather changed unexpectedly. The previously vibrant blue sky turned into the dark blur it had always been. The world lost its hue. Snow started falling as I grew aware of my lack of proper clothing. If it hadn't happened the day before, I'd have assumed the headache and nausea stemmed from the cold. Sick to my core, I leaned against the park's outer wall and vomited on the sidewalk. Sweating profusely, I trembled towards my building, up those dreadful stairs, and collapsed on the floor just after closing my front door. I vomited again during my time unconscious. I would have choked on my own waste, had I fallen facing up.

In a state between sleep and wakefulness, I pondered: I should have already seen another person. At least another living creature. It was strange that no one had appeared along my path. Whether in the building, on the street or in the park, I had been completely alone. If every being in the world had vanished, I‘d be none the wiser. 

These considerations faded away as I snapped back to reality. My face rested in a disgusting pool of vomit. I struggled to stand up, slipped, fell. I wanted to disappear, to melt into the ground or dissipate into thin air. 

On account of the excruciating pain, I was forced to face the day slowly, one thing at a time. I took a long, hot shower, cleaned the blood and vomit off my furniture and microwaved some noodles. Working was out of the question. My mind was focused on the mundane. If I had taken the time to dwell on the events that had taken place, I believe I would have gone irredeemably insane. 

 I was awakened by one lonely notification. My employer sent me a text message inquiring about my lack of output. It seems that I wasn't alone in the world after all. I gave an excuse and doubled my productivity, even if the night before still had its grip on my health.

That job had been my only real achievement. The one element that had forced me to stop compulsively drowning my senses in games and shows and to focus on tasks that would not bring me instant satisfaction. Ultimately, I had (and still have) enough savings to support myself for a long while in the event of termination, but my work has kept me from sinking even deeper into an existence I wouldn't be able to crawl out of. Unless I terminated myself, of course. 

My sleep was restless and my dreams were null. I woke up with the same intense craving that had plagued me for the past few days. I knew what was bound to happen. I knew it’d destroy my body, deteriorate my mind and leave me broken. I did care, but nothing could compare to the feeling of becoming one with nothingness. I had wanted to disappear for most of my lifetime. 

The hole had taken the crude shape of a person, akin to a thin man made of clay, posed with his arms crossed. I crossed my own arms and struggled into a perfect fit, thrusting myself further. As before, the tunnel grew back into its previous shape after a few meters; I lost my sense of self and vanished into the dark. Only… the bliss did not remain. I regained my awareness of time and grew intensely concerned with how long I had been in there. No longer was I drifting in perfect darkness; I felt every inch of concrete that rubbed against my skin; I felt the suffocating heat; I felt my legs about to give out. It was impossible to tell how long I’d still have to walk or how much time had passed. For what seemed like eternity, I was in hell.

The light came as the hand of God pulling me from despair. If the journey through the tunnel filled me with panic and dread, stepping onto the flower carpet nullified every fear. The park was as beautiful as it had ever been. 

Halfway through my usual path, I heard an incoherent faint voice from behind me, further back than I had explored before. I followed it into a large open area akin to a clearing. This one, decorated with graves instead of benches, was much larger than the previous clearing that followed the entrance. In the distance, the same voice that called for me took form. An old lady, standing by a grave, talked to herself. She looked in my direction and gestured to me to come closer. 

The woman had a strange air to her, a peculiar strangeness you can feel but not pinpoint. The years had not been kind to her crooked, frail body, to her sickly pale skin.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning.”

“You’ve always had an addictive personality, you know?”

“I’m sorry, do we know each other?” I was puzzled. 

“Why, yes. I am you. From the future, as a matter of fact.”

I immediately concluded that she was sick in the head and had strayed from her caretaker.

“M’am, are you alright? Did you come here with anyone?”

“Oh, Anna. I have yet to cross the barrier of insanity. I’ve come here to warn you. My doctor has diagnosed me with early onset dementia. I have no doubt it’s directly related to these… escapades. I am quite sure my - I’m sorry - our habits are to blame. Did you know that an irregular sleeping schedule increases the risk of dementia? More importantly, did you know that maintaining meaningful connections greatly reduces that same risk?”

She knew I was already conscious of these facts. More importantly, she knew I had been ignoring them as I had done with every uncomfortable truth that threatened my lifestyle. It dawned on me that we were standing in a graveyard. I hadn’t realized it before, even as I walked through the graves.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I knew it. I was directly responsible for her state. 

“Oh, God, you’ll cry now? I thought my younger self was averse to melodrama.” She stared at me with a mix of pity and boredom as I sobbed. “Well… no, no. Do cry. I am sure a life of subdued emotions has contributed to my state.” She put a hand on my shoulder and said, “But crying won’t solve anything, you know?”

I tried and failed to wipe away my tears. “What is there to solve? You’re proof of my failings, you’re proof I completely ruined myself. And you hate me for it, I’m sure. You despise me for my lack of control, for my poor impulses. Alone and lost, this is how you’ll die - how I’ll  die because of my own choices.”

“Why do you talk like that? Like, like… a character from a play? I forgot just how fragile and dramatic I was in my youth. So my memory betrays me. I guess I should get used to that. As I said, crying won’t solve your problems. I’m here to warn you - hey, hey! Pay attention!” She shook my shoulders with remarkable strength for a lady her age. “You are weak. You are a weak woman, Anna. I pity you. If I listen to your wailing any longer, pity will turn to secondhand embarrassment.”

I don’t know what she thought she’d achieve with such crass words. I kept whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” as I cried to the obvious consequences of my actions.

“I don’t want you to feel sorry. That won’t change anything. I’m here to warn you - you can alter the outcome. If you want to avoid ending as a broken husk, you have to leave. I couldn’t do it myself and I’ll pay the price for it. You still have the chance to become strong, do you understand? It may take weeks, months or years, but this desire - this burning desire - will fade away at some point. Be strong or die, Anna. No one will drag you from this place. You have no one. Words of comfort are void, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“I’m afraid, I can’t make it on my own. I never recognized it, but I need others.”

“You can make it on your own, but you are weak.”

“I’m afraid.”

“You’re afraid? That's good. Fear is the only instinct that’ll guarantee your survival. If you are weak, fear will kill you.” She paused. “I can’t offer you kindness, not when you may so easily destroy yourself. Positive affirmations will only make you content as you succumb.”

We spent a moment staring at the grave in front of us.

“That’s all I have to say. Please, leave me alone,” she concluded without taking her eyes off the cold stone slab.

I walked through the graves, through the trees and through the carpet of flowers. Through the warmth of the sunrays and through the trap of vivid beauty, I marched without looking behind. I felt the wind pulling me back, nature calling for my name. I didn’t respond, closing my eyes whenever I could, rejecting the pleasure of beautiful sights. Every blink lost the garden more of its colors, more of its warmth. It was excruciatingly painful, the same pain that I had experienced these past few days, only a hundred times worse. 

By the time I arrived at the entrance clearing, it had already started snowing from a sky that turned dark gray and overcast. Arriving home, I went straight to bed and slept for what felt like a year. 

I suffered through three days of gradually weaker muscle pains, nausea and headaches until I stabilized. I never visited the park again, but the desire for that warm euphoria didn’t fade away either.

An event that occurred earlier this morning prompted me to write this. About five months have passed since I last left that tunnel and I’d be lying if I said I don’t think of crawling back in from time to time. I am usually able to stop these impulses before I approach the window, but today was when curiosity got the best of me. 

The hole had remained. It seemed to have been twisted beyond recognition, but as I looked more intently, the unmistakable silhouette of a person took shape. Dread. I shivered upon realizing who the figure mimicked. I closed the blinds immediately. It was as if someone had used my body to create a mold. 

I plan on moving soon. Somewhere closer to our family. I will benefit from a change of scenery. Away from the park, away from those gigantic gray buildings and deafening silence. Something tells me the hole will come along. I’ll be strong, though. 

I was looking at some old pictures recently. Why don’t you come by? I’d like to see you one of these days. I’m sure you’ve changed as much as I have. Don’t text me, send a letter 

Love, 

P.

https://insecure.ao3.org/works/56197990