REFLECTIONS

It all started a few weeks ago on a Sunday, as I strolled underneath the shade of some trees. The mood was lovely, and the weather was not too warm. The evening sunlight turned the late-spring foliage into glowing green lanterns, projecting a curious effect onto everything beneath them. The scene looked mesmerising. I could not help but take my phone out for a photo, and as I did, I caught a glimpse of my face mirrored in the glassy blackness of the locked screen. My face glowed with the sunlit imprint of the leaves, warping wildly around its features. It was the perfect photo op. I unlocked my phone and took a picture of myself, posting it online immediately. I continued my stroll, enjoying the beautiful end of the day ahead.

 

By the time I arrived home, the sun had almost set, and night shadows loomed along the corridors and corners of the house. I placed my phone down when all of a sudden, the screen lit up, piercing the surrounding darkness with a gentle electric glow that signified an incoming notification. I smiled, feeling the painful comfort that such events bring upon souls who live alone. My post had received a few likes, encouraging me to look at it again. What? I gasped. To my shock, it was not quite the picture that I remembered taking; something in it had changed. It was not the eyes, nor the mouth or the facial expression. Without a doubt, they were very much mine. It was not the background or the pattern caused by the sunlit leaves. I could not point out what it was exactly, but there was something alien present in the photo. My gaze was captivated, and, despite the eerie repulsion it aroused in me, I could not look away. I shivered, turning the screen off after some minutes. My mind wandered back to memories from my younger days. I disliked seeing myself in the mirror. There were moments when I fancied that the images staring back at me from those silvery surfaces were not faithful representations of myself, but horrid corruptions. I never took that thought too seriously, and yet, the possibility always lingered somewhere in my mind. Enough, I interjected. I need sleep. I took a shower and went to bed early.

 

The next morning was not kind to me. After wrestling with the bedsheets and hurrying to prepare for work, I sat down for breakfast. Halfway through my coffee, I remembered the photo. I had left my phone on the table, face down, to prevent myself from seeing the screen. After some hesitation, I picked it up with a shaky hand. The eagerness to disprove my fears diverted my attention away from the flood of notifications that had piled up overnight. I opened up my last post. The strange presence was still there. My heart jumped; my head shrank and throbbed. My trembling thumb manoeuvred its way back to the gallery. I leapt out of my seat, slamming the phone onto the table. My face grew hot as my fright transformed into nausea. I stood up panting, wide-eyed with a forehead glazed in sweat. None of my posts were recognisable to me; that loathsome presence had corrupted them all in the same imperceptible way. Possessed by revulsion, I picked up the cursed thing and deactivated my account. I needed a break.

 

About a week passed. I sat in the dark—as I often do on Sunday nights—bathed in the soft radiance of an unattended television screen. I reached for my phone and saw myself on its inactive black surface. I saw how my face reflected the changing colours of the light emanating from the television. That week, dead fears had tried to come back to life. On Monday I avoided mirrors as much as possible. Over the next few days, I made myself believe that there was nothing to be frightened of. By Friday I managed to stand in front of a mirror again with only some minor anxiety affecting me. Reflections are not to be feared, I convinced myself. Especially not my own. After all, I control my image. I unlocked the phone’s screen and reactivated my account, taking a deep breath. I was unprepared to feel the overwhelming, visceral disgust that suddenly came upon me. My account consisted entirely of posts that were foreign to me. There were pictures of moments I had never experienced, smiles my face had never worn, memories I did not recall. And yet I was undoubtedly in all the posts. It was me; anyone would be a fool to say otherwise. But it was a ‘me’ that had been polluted by that foul, invisible presence. My body reacted as though it had been jolted by electricity. My grip failed me, and the phone fell out of my hand onto the floor. The glass screen cracked, letting out a short shriek that contrasted against the background drone of the television. My phone lit up, and I managed to see a notification. Someone had just sent me a message. I still can’t get over your last post—it read—you’ve never looked so alive!