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The Hundredth Word
The mirror convulsed like a wound, glass breathing in a rhythm older than lungs. My reflection rose without me, lips peeled back in a grin that remembered sins I had never confessed. I pressed trembling fingers to the cold pane, felt skin—my skin—slick with rot, eager to pull me through. The face leaned close, mouth yawning wider than bone should allow, silence roaring like a furnace. Pressure spiked in my skull, thoughts cracking, reforming, bleeding. Then I realized: perhaps I was never the original. Perhaps I was the reflection, rehearsing lines already spoken by something else, already erased, already replaced, forever.
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