We’re almost done with this…sadly?



It gets lonely; boring.
Being what I am.
Of course I could choose to shack up with a male, be his woman and bear a child. But that would mean my dying.
You see, going through the human process of childbirth reverts something in us.
Not demons. Not humans. A blurry being in between.
It would cause me to die after a few years.
Nah, I’m too selfish. I don’t want a child. Or a man.
I’m free. Free and alone.

Well, not anymore.
It isn’t lust or hunger that has driven me to her.
It is love.
I think I’m in love with her.
Permanent, crazy love.
I can’t remember the last time I ate, yet I do not feel the gnawing of hunger. Not one bit! Not when I’m staring at her, basking in her gaze on me. I see the very feeling I have reflected in her eyes, shimmering black eyes.
Her face is so smooth, so pale, so flawless, so beautiful.
Her hands look soft, small, dainty.
I can’t keep away from her.
I dream of holding her in my arms.
Oh my fair lady!
I want to be with you, I want to be like you!

Alas, we’re not the same.
It’s complicated.
She doesn’t eat what I eat. Neither does she drink. It would be hard showing her the pleasures of being me.
Yet, we’re meant to be.
When we hold hands, the coolness of our contact brings shivers up my arms.
When our lips meet, the coolness delights me, driving me into moments of rapture.
You make me lose myself!
I cannot believe I’m saying this, but you do.
Zanda, the independent. Zanda, the fierce.
Brought to her knees, in surrender.
She makes me see the real me, I see what I have become better because of her.
She’s my confessor.
I tell her my deeds; the good, the bad and the bloody.
She never judges me. She never interrupts.
She just listens.
I don’t deserve you, my love; I don’t!
I move to push you away, but I can’t.
You’re everywhere I go.

How have you done this to me?
Tell me?
What do you see, that I can see, yet can’t see?
The cynical part of me wonders what she’d taste like.
I hope that doesn’t frighten her, not like I can bring myself to do the horrid deed. I’m just too curious sometimes.

It killed the cat. It died nine times.
Would you be scared if I squeezed your throat?
Would your eyes plead for mercy when I claw you?
Would you hate me?
Would you?
Answer me!
You refuse to speak.
See, she refuses to speak.

I can see the misery in her eyes.
Of course, she would hate me.
I wish I could hit her.
Not to kill her, just to make myself feel better.
I can’t.

I apologise profusely to her, and I see her lips move.
I cannot hear her. I move my ears closer to meet the divide separating us.
Cold divide.
Hard divide.
Glassy divide.

The object of my love, my affection
Narcissus, bear me witness.
I’m in love with the face in the mirror.
My reflection.

I can’t take this anymore.
I should break the mirror, but i can’t.
I’ve tried covering her up but i end up going back.
I love you.
But i hate you for what you are; for what you’re not.
So long.
For how long?


It’s cold in here.
Trapped, unable to move.
I’ve watched her as she watched me.
I ache to touch that face but I can’t.
I haven’t seen her in a while.
I’m afraid.
Inanimate, non-existent, I might be.
After all, I’m just a reflection.
But a mirror is like a memory.
It saves every look of you.
A little of yourself is trapped inside a looking glass.
Just the way a little of herself is trapped.
I dream about getting out; a pipe dream perhaps but i can dream can’t I?
What is it like outside?
Can you tel me?
I want to know.
I want to live.
An odd request for one trapped inside a mirror isn’t it?

Is it possible to let me out?
No? Ohwell.
I’m not hopeful.
It is cold.
Look for Zanda.
I fear she’s in trouble.
Tell her i am here; here waiting.



The concluding part of this, tomorrow. Lucky number 7.