THE MIRROR'S TRUTH
678 Words
Chapter 5: The Mirror’s Truth
By Kelvin Kerry
Janice’s walk-in closet wasn't a closet; it was a cathedral of fabric. Rows of velvet blazers, silk shirts, and Italian leather shoes stretched out under soft LED lights. It smelled of cedar and ambition.
"The goal," Janice said, pacing the room like a general, "is not to make you look like me. The goal is to make you look like the version of yourself that doesn't hide behind a diary."
I stood in the centre of the room, feeling like a blank canvas. "Janice, I’m a navy-polo-and-khakis guy. I don’t think I have a 'version' that works in a place like this."
Janice stopped and looked at me, tilting his head. "Everyone has a spark, Andrew. Most people just cover it up with 'normal' because they're afraid of the heat."
The Transformation
For the next two hours, it was a whirlwind of "Too drab," "Too flashy," and "Perfect." Janice tossed garments at me with surgical precision. He made me try on a charcoal suit that felt like a second skin, paired with a shirt the colour of a midnight sky.
Then came the part I was most afraid of: the vanity.
Janice made me sit in a velvet chair. He picked up a small brush, his expression focused and surprisingly gentle.
"Just a little," he whispered, leaning in. I could see the reflection of the chandelier in his eyes. "Not to change your face, but to emphasise the parts of you that see the world so clearly."
He applied a subtle, dark smudge of liner to the outer corners of my eyes—nothing as bold as his silver wings, but enough to make my gaze look sharp, intentional. Finally, he took a tiny bit of that same gold dust from before and brushed it onto the lapel of my jacket.
"There," he said, stepping back. "Look."
The Boy in the Glass
I turned to the mirror. I didn't recognise the person staring back. The guy in the glass didn't look like a "ghost." He looked like a protagonist. The dark suit made me look taller, and the slight touch of makeup made my eyes pop in a way that felt like a secret weapon.
"I look... different," I whispered.
"You look present," Janice corrected. He stood behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. His reflection was vibrant and defiant, mine was steady and newfound. "Tonight, we aren't the 'weird kid' and the 'normal kid.' Tonight, we’re the only two people in that gala who actually know who they are."
The Calm Before the Storm
Suddenly, the heavy footsteps of his father echoed in the hallway outside. Janice’s grip on my shoulder tightened for a split second before his mask of "classy" indifference snapped back into place.
"Remember," Janice whispered as the door handle turned. "Don't blink. Ghosts blink; lions don't."
The door opened, and Janice’s father stood there, dressed in a stiff, traditional tuxedo. He looked at Janice, then his eyes drifted to me. He looked disgusted, then confused, then finally—for a fleeting second—intimidated by the sheer confidence radiating from the two of us.
"The car is waiting," his father said coldly, refusing to acknowledge our appearance. "Don't make a scene."
Janice looked at me and winked. "Oh, Father. A scene is the only thing worth making."
Diary Entry (Written on a napkin in the back of the limo)
I’m writing this while sitting on Italian leather, heading toward the most expensive night of my life. My hands are shaking, but not because I'm scared. I'm shaking because for the first time in my life, I don't want to disappear.
Janice is sitting across from me, staring out the window at the city lights. He looks like a king going to war. He transformed me today, but I realise now he didn't do it with clothes or gold dust. He did it by believing that I was worth looking at.
Tonight, the 'normal' Andrew-Clarken stays in the car. The 'disturbing' version is going inside.
- Writer
