[Fiction, obviously --ed.]
Shoving back the shower curtain, I grabbed for my towel and dried myself off. Groaning slightly, I lurched towards the sink and toweled the condensation from the mirror. Through the haze of alcohol and sleep deprivation, I miserably wondered why I had drunk so much the night before, and just how terrible a hangover I should expect to deal with for the next eight hours.
I leaned in close to the mirror, and blearily eyed the familiar scars on my right cheek and eyebrow. They were, respectively, the results of a childhood neighbor's fingernails and an unprovoked attack by a drunk. I rarely notice them anymore, but they seemed more prominent this painful morning.
I brushed the hair back from my forehead. Then, disapproving of the results, brushed it back down. Sighing, I concluded that nothing short of a haircut was going to improve its appearance and resigned myself to looking at bad as I felt. I turned to open the door, intending to eat some of last night's delivery pizza before driving to work.
I turned back, stopped for a moment, and stared into the mirror.
I'm not sure what caught my eye, exactly... perhaps a gleam I didn't recognize in the eye of my reflection. Maybe it was a slight difference in the way I looked back at me. Perhaps the person looking back through the glass didn't seem as familiar as he should have. I don't know what it was. Something just felt out of place, different...
I leaned in again, staring into my reflected eyes. Wondering how many brain cells had drowned in whiskey the night before, I grunted and stood up straight again.
It was nothing, I thought, trying to convince myself. It has to be. I've just got a case of the alkie stupids.
But...
I slowly reached out to the mirror, my index and middle fingers extended. I pressed them against the reflection.
I felt flesh. Other fingertips. My fingertips against other fingertips. I gasped and jerked my hand back, rubbing my fingers with my other hand in disbelief.
"What..." I whispered. "What the hell was that?"
I reached out again, this time pressing my entire hand flat against the mirror.
Nothing but cold, smooth glass. A trickle of condensation slid from my outstretched thumb to the countertop below. My familiar reflection looked back at me through bloodshot, half-lidded eyes.
My hand still pressed against the glass, I muttered "But... I felt it... I know I did... they were there..."
