The Definition of Dysania (A Collection of Short Trepidations)

𝕊𝕙𝕖 𝕚𝕤𝕟'𝕥 𝕞𝕖 (ℙ𝕥. 𝟙, 𝕙𝕖𝕣 ℙ𝕆𝕍)

One day, I took a nap.

And when I woke up, 7 minutes later—according to my phone, I was sitting up, with my mouth half open. Air suspended in my throat like I was about to say something. My brother was in the doorway to the living room and had this awful look on his face.

He looked at me like he was disgusted, and I was so confused. I was just napping.

***

This started happening so many times, everywhere. I would nod off a bit in class, and I was in the principal's office, awaiting punishment for words I never remembered saying.

Go to bed a bit late, wake up at breakfast with my mom almost to tears, and my dad and brother simultaneously yelling at me.

Blink in the mall, woke up to being dragged out by security officers and being banned by a couple of stores.

A long time ago, I stopped reacting to the time changes—it only seemed to make the situation worse. I adapted to the irregularity of it all and became numb to it.

***

I was a teenager, so naturally, people blamed it on that. Until I never grew out of it. Please keep reading.

So one day, I decided to try not to close my eyes, as it seemed like that triggered the amnesia. I got through a few hours before I couldn't take the burning anymore, and I woke up a couple of days later in a pastel therapist's office. One wall was yellow, the other blue, and another pink. I think they were supposed to be calming, but they grated on my nerves like nails on a blackboard instead of chalk.

The therapist looked troubled, and asked me 'why do you think you're here?'

I said I didn't remember. I always say that because it's true and doctors have given me every label (none were accurate) and medication (none worked) under the sun. Then they become frustrated with me and I never see them again. I don't see many people again, because once I blink, they hate me.

Everyone does, eventually.

Please keep reading.
The therapist wrote something down in that notebook they all have.

Then they brought out a mirror. One of those old, silver, handheld ones that are metal on the outside and very intricately engraved like metal lace.

It seemed to appear out of nowhere, and I stared at it intently, until the therapist turned it around so that the reflective side faced me. I reflexively glanced down, up, and away from it, so I wouldn't have to suffer through my reflection.

'Why aren't you looking at it?' The therapist asked innocently as if they aren't trying to get me to confess my existence.

I don't want to, I replied, albeit a bit petulantly.

'It will help you.'

I don't need help—I've adapted.

'Then why are you wasting both of our time? If you thought that you were fine, you wouldn't be here. No one ever would be.'

I sat in suffocating silence.

I heard the therapist's chair creak, as they leaned over.

I saw their shadow move closer to mine on the floor.

I felt their plain nails dig into my jaw as they ripped my head up to look at the mirror, and for a split second, I couldn't move my eyes away fast enough.

So I closed them.

This defensive reaction isn't new to me, either.

If someone talked about me, I closed them.

If someone looked down on me, I closed them.

If they laughed in my face, I would close them.

It always seemed to work but I felt terrible about it afterward because it would never end well if I blinked.

Please keep reading.
This time, though, when I woke up again, I was still in the therapist's office. My aching jaw is still in their clutches. The mirror is still inches from my face. But things were still different. The walls were different shades of grey. The therapist's nails drew lots of blood. The mirror had a mini-fracture on the top.

When I stared into it, I saw myself.

And everything was normal until I spoke up to say so.

I said I think nothing is wrong. The words that came out of the mirror were 'Let me go! You fucking insane quack of a doctor! This hurts!'

I didn't hear them, but at the same time, I did.

The therapist was silent and emotionless. At this point, I wondered who was insane.

I assumed it was me. It was always me.

I blinked.

Nothing seemed to change, except, I couldn't see the edges of the mirror. I saw myself, I saw the background of ever-dulling grey, and I saw dried blood trailing down my chin.

But there was no mirror.

I felt my face contort into confusion, but there was no similar change made to my reflection.

I saw Myself sigh in relief it seemed.

'Thank god she's out. You have no idea what it is like having to be split in half in my own body!'

Chills seeped into my spine with dread.

The claws loosened, but the arm stayed there, and my body got up, went to an unknown corner, and opened a door. I heard water running.

The therapist finally retracted their arm from my view. And slowly turned the mirror so that it faced themselves.

I had my fist banging down on the invisible barrier. Mimicking a scream, yet no noise coming out. As I stared into the apathetic eyes of the therapist, I panicked even more frantically.

Please keep reading.
Until I felt a hand grip my forearm from behind me.

'All you're doing is hurting yourself, why resist when you are cured?'

Cured, I gasped.

'Yes.' I turned my head to the traveling reflection of the therapist that joined me in the ominous nothingness that surrounded me.
'You did say that you didn't want to be scared of blinking and not being yourself anymore, didn't you? So monotonous, that schedule you two had...'

I never asked for this! My exasperation slowly dipped into despair.

'Indirectly, you did. Indirectly, every damn day, you had consistent meltdowns and screaming tantrums, wishing to be released from yourself. From your twinhood. Of course, someone like me would eventually answer.'

The creaking, opening door distracted us, and Myself skipped out happily. Noticed me.
Bypassed the therapist. I stared into my mahogany eyes with foreign emotion leaking out of them, and Myself broke the mirror with a punch.

***

I don't quite know where I am. I don't think I ever will, but I am cut off from everything.

Everyone.

But, if I concentrate hard enough, I can appear in other mirrors, instead of your reflection.

Did you know that phones and other electronic devices are sometimes referred to as black mirrors?

***

Please, please, know this:
She is not me.

Also, if you yearn for something, but if you never tell anyone but yourself about it, be careful.

You never know who can hear you when you cry in your mind.

And you never know what can transfer over from mirrors, if given time.