My Reflection Will Not Define Me.

Nothing moves in my room except the dust specks that dance along in the streams of light - reaching out from my curtains. No mirrors, nor reflective surfaces are visible in my room; they're covered in old T-shirts, sheets and what not. The cover only comes down as I wish. For the demons that haunt them are too scary to face every morning. Demons, Good morning my demons. Will you let me crawl out of my bed today? Or will I stay here and rot away in guilt? There is no answer, there never is. I manage to pull myself out of bed and to the closest mirror; pulling off the T-shirt that covers the portal of self-hate, I hear my breathing become heavier - trembling. I stare deeply into it, black smoke swirling around my head and I feel a pinch in my stomach, it starts to twirl, making my insides ache. "This mirror will not define me..." I whisper to myself, clutching to my stomach. I̕ṯ̗̳ͅ ҉͚w̨į̺l͈̮̺͇l̝̻̠͚͕ ̼̩̞ͅn̦̥̖̬͕o͖ț̡ ̯͎͚͕̭ḏ̹͢e̻̜͈f̛͎̮̰i̬̥̫̘ṇe̞ ͙͎͈̱m̧e̢̥̲̝̣̜.͎̞͠.̣̜͖̰̗.̩̙̀ ̼̼̬̟D̨e͙̬͔͙͓f̻̗̳̠̫̻̀i̛̩̪̻̘ne̯̤͓͕͜ ̵̹̺̝m̬͍͎̼̠̱͝e̸͖͈̯̮͚̞ͅ.̮̭.̼̦̥͙̻ͅ.̟̩͕̘̯̜͓ ͇͉̯̣̗͡ͅW̳̯̰̩̩̬͠ͅh͏̠̯̭ͅo̸̖̦̲ ̻à͇͉̤͈̱r҉͖̜̹̱̫̟e͙̜̲ ̜̤y͔͠o̡u?̸̖̭ ̸G̞̜̫͔̮e͚͈͓t҉̘̮̰͙̜ ̱͎̻̰͢o̙̭̻̰̲̺̜͠ut̙̩͖̻ ̧̰̜̥̼̦̭͖o͈̺̤͎̥̳f ͏̺̙̜̺m̢y̮ ̘he̩̲̮͚̣͙̤͜a̶͇̳̬̰̹͙d͓̙.̛̞̰ ̺̝͇G҉͈̦̗e͙͍t̼̥̘̕ ̻o̭͇̺͉u̜̣͉t̞̖̹͔͈͓ͅ.͖̜ ̗̤̯̝̤̣G̸̠̜ͅe͙͙̩̺̝̗͜t̜̯̖͎̫̭͢ͅ ̶̰̜̤̥̺̬o̷͇̩͚̬̗͈̭u̝͇̥̬̲͈ͅt̟.̧ ̰G̗͇E̜̳̩T̠̠ͅ ̴͖O̘͔̫̱͜U͙̜͉̤̪T̬͙̬̜͚!̞̥̩̜̻͓ I turn away from my reflection, just as a hand presses up against the other side; slowly, lifeless, angry. It fades away, nothing but me, my thoughts and the small specks of dust that haunt my room with their tiny dances. I close my eyes and listen for a bit; I can hear children playing, birds singing and cars chattering past, it brings a smile on my lips. But my self-hate leaks back and I turn back to the mirror as if it was calling my name. A younger version of me appears in the mirror. A version before the stroke, a version before my demons. I let out a whimper and cover my mouth - my present floods back with a hard hit. "It's not really there, Lucinda...It's all in your head," my voice breaks and I turn away again, words thump through my head. "̭Yo̮͖̟̰̱̬̝͜u̙̪̥̘͚̤̕ ͇͕͡ẉ̺̗̦̱i̥̖̪̙̠̰̕l͇̹̯͇͔̩ͅl̯̹̫͍̦ ̕l҉̳͉̬̭oo̧̗ḱ̺̤̦͉̼͉̭ ̣̼̠́ț̬̝͙h̛̠͇̘͕ȩ̙͚̣̤̼ ͉sa̲m̲̥͈͜e͕̺̖ ͖̠͍̱̖a̪͖̟̗̼f̨̖t̩ḛ̶͚̩̺̬r͍͓ ̨͉͚e̤v̻̝̣͙̻̟ͅe͇͇͓̹̻r̨̞y͝t̼͚͚h̯̙̹ͅi͙̙̤̜̥̩n̸̹̙̘͓̠͉g̛̼͉̙̳̫͉,̢"͚̜̭ ̫"̥͇͜Y̺̗̺̩͕͠o͇͔̼̬̖u̻̳'̨̖̮̘͖r͚̞͎̦̫͔e̝̩ ̭͉̥̪̙̘̣͠s̗͔̝͟t̗̣̟̜̬͎̹̀i̠̮̥̳͇l̯̞̦ͅl͔ ̤̝̟̤p̢̙̪̭͈͙r̮͚ͅe̖̹̟͚̼̰͇t͏t̢̲̘̺ỵ̶!̪̤̱̱͈̙"͙̱̣ ̼͇̪̺̙̥̤D͏̰̜̪̙̲i͏s̴͙͚͚͍̱g̮̞u̩̟̼ṣ̝͢t̻͉̤͟ì̘n͢ͅg͎͔͖̟͈̺͢. ͍̬͓̀W̞̖͔̼̞̲͞ͅo̩̱̤̥̱̟̺r̭̹͕͟t̷͖ͅͅh̴̘̳̼l͖e̱̲̟ͅṣ̶͚̜ș͈͎.̘̱̥̟͙̗̮ ̼͝Y̬͔͖o̦̩̳̘̠̦u͕͓̘̣̻͝ ̱͙̣ẉ͖̩̪̗̲̬i̯͝l̮̙̯l̼̭͠ͅ ͖̟̺̗͖n̶e̵̝̝̝v̙̰̼e͘r͖̙̟̥̭̬͘ ͔̝͍̠̗b̵̬̮͇ͅe̝̫͉̭͡ ̫t̸he̙̪̙̗ ͎͚s̭̣̰̤̼͎am̨̘̝̟̲̳̫e.̠̪̺̗̗̲̬ ͉̹́GE̪͖̞͍̯͝T̹̖̤̱̯͜ ̫̗̘O̱U̺̙T̨!̨ I pull at my hair and fling open the curtains, everything falls silent and I let out a sigh of relief. "No one can know..." My hands move around my torso and I leave the room, headed towards the kitchen. I open the cupboard and pull out my favorite mug; it's mint and has a little cat sleeping on the front. I flick the jug on and start to talk to myself, to try and reassure myself. "Today I'm going to leave this house..." There's a thud. "I'm going to go to lunch with my friend..." The thudding gets louder. "I need to get some groceries..." The thudding gets closer; even louder and my heart starts to pound. G̶̶̤̖̺̖͋͆̅ͭ͆̋ͩ͂ͮ̒ͮ̄̚͟͡E̤̰̰̭̰̲̦̦̬̮̼̩͚̖̯̭̠͂̽ͬ̋ͯ͂͘T͛̌̂͌̂ͭ̆̈́̀̎ͬ͗ͯ̔̈́҉̪͕̜̤̭͙̟͈̯̦̬̞̣̼͢ ̶̜̱̮̰̼̻̥̥̽̇̅͋̔̈ͦͦ̄͐̀̀̕O̵͕̝̬̪̥̭͒̍̒̇̆͗ͣͪͧU̶̢̧̫̯̙̫̯͉̲̺̙̣͈͓̖̺̮͚̜ͮ̇ͬ̐́͒̐̋̋̔ͯ̀͞Ṭ̡̨̛̲̫̤̝͈̗͔̥̫̗̝̯̰̱̹̜͖͔ͥ̆͐͆̀͢!̶̷̊͂̃͌ͧ͊̔ͨ͊̓̽͛̂̓͂̓̄͏͚̖͕ͅ ̡̛͚̪̻̗͇͎̱͉̠͓̺̼̰̯̂̏͐͌̄͗͑͂ͭ͐̄̆̇͌̊ It's reaching out to me, it's hands are dripping with black ooze. I didn't know they could get so close... It's touching me. Help. HELP ME! GET IT OFF ME! G̨̭̱̫̝̪̖͓̣͚̪͓̺̻͉͍̦̺͔ͥ̌̈́ͦ̀̐̂̀̚̕͟͝ͅE̴͕̱͓̲̝̺͚̦͉̖͔ͦ̎̄͒͒̇ͧ̃̎͗ͨ͛̽ͣ͆̀͠T̟̭̲̖̲͙̳̐̑̏ͫͫͫ̇͠͠ ̶̫̳͍̟͙̺̰̭͎̦̦̤͇̗̫̱̦͐̉͗͗̋͐͑̽ͣ̇ͣ̌̀̕͝͝I͋ͪͣͣ̿ͨ͂̒ͧͮ̆ͦ̇̆̃ͣ́͊͟͟҉̳̼̝̫̣̦͖̱͕̫̹͔͕̬̩T̛͖̫̯̘ͣ̃̋͒́̅́̉ͪ̍ͩͩ̈́̐̏̅͞ ̷̳̙̝͇͈̺̗̺̞̜̙̙̮͇̥́ͯ̍ͪ̃̑̉̒ͧ͒̓ͤ̇ͮͯ̚͠Ơ̴̺̩͖͇͉̹̤̥̥̬̪̖͕̮͙͈̫͉͛́͊̆̒ͮ̎̓̅͂ͫͯ̒̋͛̕F̶̯͙̣̱͑ͬ͒̂̽F̶̟̟͎̯̺̰̪͎͔̠̙̋ͪ͒̒͒̏ͪ͗ͨ̃̋̑̃̚͢͡ Ţ̵̡͖̩̪̺̠̳̻̟̄͂̄̓̍͊̽̂̆͒̋̑̚̕ͅH̢̨̝̮̙̝͓̼͈̻̭͚̫̫̭̣͉̗̟͖̳͑̐͑͂̈́̈́̒̕͟I̲̯̦̤͓͓̹̮̰͌̈́̎̾̈͗̓͞S̸̛̠̖̙̼̙ͤ̔ͤ̅ͤͤ͆͗̐̽́̍̋͑̋̋̋̇ͮ́ ̵̌̏͛̃̌͐͐̓͘͜҉͉̺͔͚̬̤̗̲̙͕͖̬͠D̴̡͖͉̬̗̩̰͔̻͔̮͔͚͕̺͎͌̃̌͊ͮͯ͂͊̊̏̅͌̃̍ͦ̎͟͠E̢̙̯͔͙̺̘̲̺̯̱̬̭̩̜̦̹ͭͥͣͭ͊ͮ͂ͯ͂ͮͧ͗͞P̶̸̘̹̪͉̟͉͎̪̬͖̝̍ͨͫ̆̽͗̆͂ͭ͛̓̔͆̈͋̈́̀͘͝R̴̨͚͇̼̳͈͕͇̟̤̦̜̹̆̔̌͆̋͂̿͗́̓ͨ͂ͮ̃̅ͥͫ͋E͛̋̊́̚͠҉̶̧͓̦̦͇̻̳̪̭̲͕̤̲͈̤̺͇̮͝S̸͈̳͉̼͔͔̳̻̰̞̮̰ͩ̅̈́̽̽ͮ̏́͢͡͡S̨̛͇̳͍̠̤̺̼̣̮̠͉̖̲͗̇ͬ̾ͬ̄ͣͦ̂̍̆̈́̂̈̀ͩͮ͝Ḯ̷̛͑̍̂ͣ͛̓̌̃ͥͨ̐͊ͯͥ͆ͣ͛́͘҉͔̻̺̦̹̻ͅO̸̡̨͖̮̠̘̩͔̐̏̎̓͂ͣ̐ͣ͌͆ͪ̔ͮ͗͌͆̂̓̚Ņ̛̱͖̪͚̳̦͉̝̘͇̫͍̹̳̱̰̬̬͕͆͂͊ͥ̉̃͑͆ͪ͗͡ ̟̺͙͈͉̠͇̘̹̥̗̜̄̆ͫͪͨ̄̓ͫ̔̀̕͟͡ͅW̶̡̞̣̰̼̼͓̬̘̠͍̠͎̥͚̆ͨ̏̄̿̾͌͛̀͘I̶̲̳̣̻̻̅͌ͧ̀̔̈̎ͩ̃ͦ̆ͥ̓̈ͪͮ͌͘͢L̴̨͓͙͍̙͖̯̞̜̼̟̲̰͓̥̞̞͚͌͋ͥ̏͑̋̽͘ͅḼ̡̢̩̫̬̪̼͇̳̺͈̜̭͈̓̉ͨ̂ͯ͊͢͠ ̷̵̧̹̬͔̜̯̣͎̤͉̤͙̗͔͎̭͑͑ͬ͗̐ͪ̃̋̀͝ͅͅǸ̎ͬ̓҉҉̺̜̱̤̫̹̝̮̫͙̤͘͘͜ͅȌ͚̝̻̠̘̬͈͈͎̩̭͓ͯͮ͑ͮ̉̔ͦ̓̕͞ͅT̶͙͍̗͓̺̣̰͉̦̬̺̮̤̞̱̪̻ͩͯ͛̃͢ ͍͓̞̼̫̔ͮ͐̅̈́͐̾ͫ́̋͐̇̋ͩ̓̄̀͜͟͠D̡̢͓͓͙͓̰͉̥͓̬͉̬͌ͮ̉ͩ̽̆̌̓ͫ͛̍̏̒ͨ͝E͍̳͎̩̠̰̞̯̤̺̝̖͗̌͋̂ͨͩ͘͠͞F͔̥̲͚̥̟̣̉̓̊̃̄ͭ́̃ͦ͐̓́̃͐͆̀͞Ȋ̢͇̺̞̻͇͔͕͙̓ͮ͂̍͠ͅN͖̖̯̥̞͖̘̯̯ͭͬ̓̏ͨ͘̕͜͝Ę̵̑͐̾ͦ͂̔ͣ̎̆͏̭̹͓̦̼̮̤̦̤͙̘̟̭̯͕̪̮͍ ̡̡̛̼͍͓̼̣͈͈̌̾̅̋͂ͯ̋ͭ̐ͮ̓́̇̋ͣ͘͠M͗̏̿ͬ͒̓̓͌ͧͦͧ̽ͬ̇̏̑͏̷͉͚̖̯E̾ͨͪ́̒̆̑̃͐ͬͮͤ͋̾ͩ͛̚̚͏͕̤̻͙ͅ!̷̧̺͇̦̼͖͂̂ͫ̿ͭ͛̾ͨͭ̃ͮͭͬ́͟͝