I am fairly certain mirrors are supposed to reflect reality. But mine must be broken. It’s been broken for a while now. Every morning I see the same thing – fiction, fantasy, pretend…whatever you want to call it. I haven’t seen anything resembling reality since…
“Hurry up,” comes the loud voice through the speaker above me.
I close my eyes to try and find some peace – anything resembling peace – but it never comes.
I turn, looking over my shoulder, right into the camera on the wall. It stares back, lifeless.
One day, I will know the truth.
One day, I will fight back.
One day, it will all make sense…again.
“Thirty seconds,” the voice says, impatient.
I reach my hand – or what used to be my hand – to the side of the mirror. My metal finger presses the button on the wall, which starts to blink. I take a step closer onto the round, painted circle on the floor, closing my eyes. I think my eyes are real. They told me they are real.
A tiny beeping begins and I feel the pinchers (what I call them) coming in around me, wrapping and covering, pulling and twisting, all at lightning speed. I forget where I am for a moment, trying to remember the time I was not inhuman, when I did not need some type of skin to feel human.
I open my eyes and see me, or what’s supposed to be me. Maybe the only reason I give in and don’t fight – why I let them do this to me day in and day out – is because it does help me feel real. I know it’s not, but looks can be deceiving.
My looks also only last for the day. Long enough to let them study and probe, prod and evaluate. Then I am brought back here, de-skinned, powered down and rested for the night. Do I even need rest?
“Time to go,” the voice calls.
One last look in the mirror and I know it’s only a matter time before I grow impatient. Only a matter of time before I decide to make my own reality.
I write because...I want to leave a legacy.