The Woman in the Mirror

First published in Golden Visions Magazine (2009)

Breathing through his mouth, Harold trudged up the stairs and entered the master bedroom. He stopped when he saw his wife -- or someone who looked like her -- step out of the full length mirror. This can’t be, he thought.

“Mabel?”

“Hi, Harold,” the woman said.

Harold slumped to the floor, his skinny legs unable to hold his torso erect. “You can’t be Mabel. I just buried her in the backyard.”

“It’s me.” She smiled, held her arms out to her side, and pirouetted on feet too small for her body. “See?”

“But...”

The woman turned to the mirror. Harold watched, his mouth open, while the impostor fluffed her auburn hair just the way Mabel used to.

He slid his body up the wall to a standing position and inched toward the woman. She wore Mabel’s favorite bathrobe, the one with the blue, orange, and pink splotches, and had Mabel’s green eyes and pale skin. Even the birthmark below her left eye looked genuine. He reached out, touched a silky sleeve, and noted her warmth. He captured her wrist and felt for a pulse.

“I don’t know who you are, but I want you out of my house -- now.” He pulled her toward the door.

“Oh, Harold. Don’t be silly.” Mabel freed her arm and walked away. She sat on the bed, leaned on her hands, and crossed her ankles.

Anger spread across Harold’s face. “Get out of here right now, or I’ll call the police.” He pointed toward the door.

Mabel remained on the bed, lips taut.

“Okay. I get it.” Nubby fingers plowed through his slicked back hair. “How much do you want?”

“Don’t be silly, Harold. You don’t have any money.” She pouted. “Besides I’m your wife, and I believe in the sanctity of marriage, just like the reverend preaches, and don’t plan on going anywhere.”

“But you’re not real.”

“You touched me. Didn’t I feel real?”

“But you came from the mirror,” he said.

She shook her head. “You’re such a baby, Harold. It’s time to grow up.”

“Maybe if you’d quit nagging me--”

“Oh, Harold. You are pathetic. You know I would have married Freddie Jacobs if you hadn’t knocked me up first.” Her face hardened. “And it’s not my fault your son is a damned druggie who can’t stay out of jail.”

As Mabel’s diatribe intensified, the pain grew behind Harold’s eyes. He covered his ears, but her whiny voice prevailed. He strode to the bed, grabbed Mabel by the neck, and squeezed. Harold watched her eyes widen and her tongue snake between her lips, as animal-like grunts oozed from his mouth. He continued the pressure until the woman’s eyes rolled into her head and her body fell limp. Harold released his grip, and his rage turned to worry once he realized what he’d done. He lugged Mabel down the stairs and out to the backyard, as he had earlier.

His task completed, he returned to the kitchen, sank into a chair, and picked up the sports section of the morning paper. Unable to locate his glasses, he realized he’d left them upstairs.

Breathing through his mouth, Harold trudged up the stairs and entered the master bedroom. He stopped when he saw his wife -- or someone who looked like her -- step out of the full length mirror. This can’t be, he thought.