Mirrors

by Ted Dekker

  But her face refused to change.

  And then another thought edged into her mind. It had to be an illusion, of course it did, but that meant she was capable of having illusions. Ones that looked this real.

  So then she was insane?

  Her heart slogged thick and heavy in her chest. Chills washed down her arms. She lifted them and saw that they, too, were thick.

  This was her?

  She couldn’t accept that!

  You’re delusional, Christy. And maybe this isn’t the delusion.

  The thought swept over her like a frigid wave from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. She was breathing heavily, fixed and unmoving, as if her feet had been nailed to the floor.

  She had to stop this! She had to get out!

  Uttering a low moan, filled with horror and disgust, she tore her feet from the ground and staggered toward the door.

  Grabbed the knob with thick fingers and twisted.

  The door was locked.

  She grabbed with both hands and tugged, twisting with all of her strength, but the door refused to budge.

  Christy whirled, smothered by the realization that she was trapped alone in a small bathroom. But it wasn’t a small bathroom.

  It was, but the walls had changed. Instead of white paint, the walls were made of mirrors. She backed into the closed door. Bumped into it. Felt that it too was made of glass.

  She was in a room of mirrors reflecting infinite images of her grotesque body. The new, ugly her, not the plain her. Hundreds of hers. Her legs began to shake.

  Everywhere she looked she saw only the singular sickening image of someone she despised. Her mind began to fold in on itself.

  Grunting with panic, she tried again to get the door open without even a hint of progress. Then again. She erupted into a flurry of frantic attempts to fix what was wrong, wheezing, sweating, sobbing, slamming the door with her fists.

  None of it made a difference. The images were still there, mimicking and mocking her every move.

  You’re an ugly girl, Alice. Look at yourself. Look long and hard and see just how ugly you are, inside and out.

  Christy closed her eyes, sank slowly to her seat along the bathroom door, wrapped her arms around her head, and began to rock gently.

  Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

  AUSTIN WOKE with the tang of metal in the back of his throat. His tongue throbbed in lockstep with his pulse. He slowly moved his jaw and was rewarded with a sharp pain that stabbed down his neck.

  Details of his ordeal filtered into his mind. As he’d hoped, they’d taken him. The question was, where?

  He’d been nearly electrocuted by the hallway door the moment he’d made contact. This explained why the attendants had made no attempt to chase him. The voltage had immobilized him almost instantly and made short work of the attendants’ security problem. His whole body still prickled with pain.

  He pried his eyes open. They felt like they’d been packed with glass. A white ceiling came into focus.

  Austin rolled his head to the right and looked down at his feet. He was strapped to a gurney with two thick bands that ran across his chest and waist. Each of his wrists had been lashed to the bed rails with double-loop zip ties—one cinched tightly around each arm and the other secured to the gurney’s steel railings. Plastic, not the padded cuffs that had secured him earlier.

  There was a little play, but not enough to slip through the restraints.

  The room was cold and clinical, well lit by banks of lights in the ceiling. An air-conditioning unit hummed softly, pumping frigid air into the room.

  A long stainless-steel table with a large articulating lamp used for medical exams stood in the middle of the room. Next to it, a tray of surgical instruments.

  A medical exam room. But not just an exam room. Something more. The realization dawned on him as his attention settled on the trough that rimmed the table. Then his eyes went to the opposite wall and the four stainless-steel doors, each three feet square, which stared back at him.

  He was in a morgue. The table in the middle was used for autopsies.

  Acrid fear slipped down his spine.

  Alarmed, Austin tuned his head to his left and blinked at the sight that greeted him. A row of gurneys, and on the last one, a body. A girl, who was strapped down, motionless. His pulse hammered. He didn’t have to see her up close to know who it was.

  Alice.

  He was on the second floor.

  Everything snapped into place. Why he was here. Why Alice was here. And why this specific room.

  Fisher’s intentions were clear. Why else would they be in a morgue?

  But he was reading into what he saw. There had to be another explanation. The man already had covered his tracks. It made no sense to kill them both now.

  Then again, he didn’t know who Fisher was or how deep this all ran. Either way, in conspiring to get himself onto the second floor, Austin may have inadvertently played right into the man’s hands.

  His breathing grew thick and heavy. He had to find Christy and get out of here. And he was staring at the one person who gave him any hope of doing so.

  He swallowed. “Hey.”

  No response. Of course not. She was wearing a muzzle. But she didn’t turn either.

  His fear swelled to a panic that threatened to paralyze him. He had to find a way to shove everything except the problem from his mind. Just another problem to solve. Get her loose. Find Christy. Get out. Before anyone came.

  How, he still had no clue, but he had to move quickly.

  He jerked his arms violently and knew immediately that trying to break the plastic restraints was futile.

  He snapped his head to the surgical instruments next to the exam table. Only a short distance separated him from them. No sound of approach from the hall.

  Austin drew his legs up, bringing both knees toward his chest, then planted his feet squarely against the wall to his left. If he could kick the gurney away from the wall he might be able to reach the table.

  He gauged the distance. There would be no second try. Push too lightly and he’d be stuck between the wall and table. Too hard and he’d likely knock the tray over.

  He tested the gurney with a gentle push on the wall. The wheels budged, which meant they weren’t locked.

  One chance. Taking a deep breath, he tensed his legs and pushed off as hard as he could. The gurney shot away from the wall, then began to slow.

  Not fast enough. He was going to come up short!

  Austin jerked on the gurney, hoping to coax more momentum into the rolling. The gurney surged a little and he repeated the motion, desperate to reach the center table.

  With a clang the gurney struck the metal stand, nearly toppling it and sending its the tools to the floor.

  Nearly.

  The room quieted. He waited a few seconds, sure that someone had overheard the clashing of metals. The door remained closed.

  Alice lay on her back, open eyes fixed on the ceiling, seemingly oblivious.

  Working quickly, Austin slid the zip tie along the bedrail until it was as close as possible to the work tray. A scalpel teetered dangerously on the edge. His fingers grazed the tray. On the third try, his fingertip snagged the edge. He inched it toward him slowly.

  Close enough for him to grab the scalpel’s cool handle.

  He couldn’t stop thinking that Alice might not be able to help him in her current state. If not…

  Austin carefully turned the scalpel in his hand until the blade rested against the zip tie that secured him to the bed. After a few tries the blade sliced through the plastic, freeing his right hand.

  He sat upright and made quick work of the other restraints as well as the wristband that read SCOTT CONNELLEY. He slid off the gurney and onto the tile floor, which felt ice cold against his bare feet.

  Scalpel gripped tightly in his hand, he circled around the autopsy table an
d hurried up to Alice’s gurney. The doors were still closed.

  She looked up at him with the same expressionless eyes he’d seen earlier. She either hadn’t heard all the commotion or wasn’t in a mental space to react. Drugs?

  He scanned her arms for needle marks. None that he could see. They could’ve given her oral medications. As far as he could tell, she had no bruises or cuts or any other signs of abuse, though he knew what he could see was barely half the story. The trauma she’d likely experienced in her life undoubtedly ran much deeper than her skin.

  He sawed through each of the straps that held her body down, snapping each one quickly. Only when he reached her hand restraints did he realize they were made of thick leather. Cutting through them would be difficult without injuring her. He’d have to find another way.

  He set the scalpel down and leaned over her bedrail. His trembling fingers worked at the buckle and strap that held the leather muzzle to her face. It came loose easily.

  He peeled it gently from her head and dropped it on the floor.

  The girl he’d found in the basement stared up at him, pretty, with blond hair and a serene face. Her rainwater eyes were bright, without the deadened look that sometimes accompanied drugs.

  But she made no attempt to speak.

  “Alice,” he whispered. “Remember me?”

  No response. Her eyes stared into his, unblinking.

  “I’m going to get us out of here, but I need your help. Okay?” He glanced at the door. They were okay for now.

  “Can you hear me?”

  She blinked once.

  “Yes? You can hear me? Please tell me you can hear me!”

  “Hello,” she said in a simple, sweet voice.

  Hope surged. “My name’s Austin, I saw you in the basement. Remember? With Fisher.”

  He could see by her stare that she either wasn’t tracking or didn’t see the urgency of their situation. She might not be catatonic, but she didn’t appear entirely lucid either. There was no telling what Fisher had done to her since the incident in the basement. Austin had to get through to her.

  He cradled her face in his hands. Her cheeks were cool against his palms and the moment his thumb grazed her lower lip it nudged into a gentle smile.

  “Listen to me, Alice. I overheard you in the basement. You said you already know the way out. ‘I’ve been there. I’ve seen it. I know.’ Been where? What did you see?”

  “It’s going to be okay,” she said.

  “What’s going to be okay?”

  She held her faint smile.

  “What did you mean by I’ve been there? Where?”

  “He knows,” she said.

  Austin removed his hands, relieved that she was talking, albeit in cryptic terms.

  He glanced at the door again.

  “Please, I need your help. You know something that Fisher doesn’t want you to know. He’s trying to keep you quiet. What you know may be able to save us.” He hesitated, then pushed more directly. “Tell me the way out of this place.”

  Nothing.

  “Do you know where we are?”

  “We’re here,” she said. “I’ve seen it.”

  “Seen what!?”

  No response. For all he knew, she was in a totally different zone, deluded by fanciful images that connected with a reality only privy to her. Austin felt his frustration rise. He briefly thought he might have a better chance at searching for Christy on his own.

  Time was running out and he was getting nowhere.

  “Alice—”

  “It’ll be okay,” she said.

  “No, you don’t understand. Maybe you can’t understand. This place is not okay. It’s dangerous and we have to leave as soon as possible.”

  “You can see too.”

  “See what, Alice? What!?”

  “The key. The way out. I saw the lamps.”

  Austin’s heart lurched. “There’s a key? Where? A key to what?”

  She searched his eyes, apparently fascinated with him.

  “Where’s the key? Please, Alice. I’m begging you, just tell me where.”

  Her smile softened.

  “In the basement,” she said. “Where I was.”

  His mind spun. “You mean where I saw you with Fisher?”

  She looked at him a moment, then spoke in a calm, reassuring voice.

  “It’s going to be okay, Scott. I promise.”

  Scott? He took a step back from the gurney.

  “I’m not Scott. Who told you my name is Scott?”

  “When you came in.”

  “But I didn’t tell you my name was Scott. Fisher told you my name was Scott?”

  Alice’s eyes shifted to the ceiling as if something there was drawing her attention. He followed her gaze but saw only the florescent lights.

  Still no one at the door, but someone could walk in at any moment.

  His mind spun with Alice’s words. She’d called Christy ‘Alice.’ And him ‘Scott.’ But that was explained easily enough. Fisher had worked on her before readmitting her. Schizophrenics had highly suggestible minds.

  Unless by when you came in she was referring to their being admitted at the same time, which, according to the administrator, they had been. Yesterday morning. He, Christy, and Alice, all new cases at Saint Matthew’s. Him being Scott, and Christy being Alice.

  Only problem was that couldn’t be. He was Austin. Always had been; always would be.

  “I’ve seen it,” Alice said, smiling gently at the lights above them. “I’ve been there.”

  The hinges on the door behind them creaked and Austin went rigid. For a moment he refused to turn. He was only hearing things.

  But then he turned and he knew: the door was open.

  Fisher stood in the entry, considering Austin with a flint-hard face, arms loose at his sides.

  He closed the door quietly behind him, then calmly removed his glasses, blew a speck of dust from them with a single puff, then returned them to his face. Without speaking a word, Fisher approached a wheelchair in the corner, his hard-soled shoes clacking against the tile.

  If he was surprised by Austin’s attempted escape, he didn’t show it. It was as if he’d expected as much.

  Fisher reached the wheelchair, bent down to unlock the wheels, swung it around, and pushed it toward them.

  Austin stood unmoving, feet rooted to the hard floor. He wasn’t sure whether to run away or rush the man. Neither, of course. He didn’t stand a chance against Fisher, who was twice his size.

  Even if he was able to get out of the room, then what? Break down every door until he found Christy? Get on the elevator and stroll out of the building? His logic had delivered him to the upper level, but it now failed him completely.

  Fisher stopped three feet away, strangely calm. He looked at Alice, who wasn’t paying either of them any mind. Her gaze was still on the ceiling. But Fisher had to know that she’d spoken. The implications settled into Austin’s gut like a steel shot-put.

  His attention drifted down to the wheelchair in front of him, then back up to Fisher, whose eyes were back on him.

  “Sit down, Scott,” he said. There was no anger in his voice. No malice, no emotion.

  Austin hesitated. “My name is Austin Hartt.”

  “You really want to play games with me?” Fisher asked.

  No, he thought. I don’t want to play games with you.

  But Austin’s mind was otherwise too busy spinning through complicated thoughts to come up with a reasonable answer.

  “If you want to live out this day, sit.” Fisher held his gaze. “I won’t ask again.”

  Austin did the only thing he knew he could do. He took a tentative step forward, turned around slowly, and lowered himself into the wheelchair.

  CHRISTY FELT herself being pulled from a dream—one in which she was a student at the Special School for Advanced Placement, which ironically, was best known for its
football team. And its cheerleaders.

  As the law would have it, every student had to participate in a sport. The problem was, Christy wasn’t exactly cut out for sports. And, worried about morale, the faculty had come to the conclusion that putting her on the cheerleading squad would dampen school spirit. She was too ugly, you see? The fans in the stands would spend the entire game wondering why such a prestigious school would put such an ugly mug directly in their line of sight. The fact that she often broke down in tears didn’t help matters either. They couldn’t very well have a weeping cheerleader.

  But a solution had been identified. Christy could be of great use to the school by helping with the sports field.

  “How?” she asked the board.

  “Why, by watering the grass,” an old board member with a crooked nose said.

  “Water the field? How?”

  “With your tears, of course. Every night while the rest of the world is sleeping, you will come down to the field and water the grass with your tears.”

  Christy opened her eyes and let the dream drain from her head. She was sitting on a floor. The bathroom floor.

  As if dumped from heaven, the events of the prior night thudded into her mind. She’d seen herself in the mirror. In the bathroom, which had become a room of mirrors that she could not escape.

  Her pulse quickened. White walls. Tiled floor. One mirror above the sink. Only one.

  She lifted her hand and saw with great relief that her fingers, although far too stubby, weren’t as thick as those she’d seen last night. Scrambling to her feet, she lurched to the mirror and stared at her face.

  At Christy’s face. Still one pimple, angry red, but not perched on a fat face that would scare away fans in the stands. It had been a dream then?

  She twisted to the door. If so, what was she doing in the bathroom?

  Because it wasn’t a dream, Christy. You were awake and delusional.

  Maybe.

  She took several calming breaths. Maybe, but maybe just a dream.

  Then why is the door locked? From the outside.

  Christy hurried to the door, reached for the knob, and twisted. Locked.