“Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear,” she whispered to herself as the wet road whipped passed and the urban panorama flashed and flickered like scenes from a vintage film. The world seemed to have cast itself in black and white today with very mundane shades of gray in between. The words “closing time” appeared in the mirror, far off in the distance. And she remembered. She looked again, just to assure herself. The words looked tiny, far away. She closed her eyes.
The surreal thing about sleeping is that time becomes a wormhole. You awaken, intuitively knowing that a considerable time has elapsed since you closed your eyes despite your awareness feeling as though no time at all passed. It can seem mind bending to those with friable minds. When is real? How does one tell the difference between sleep and awake? Because, at times the distinction can seem somewhat random. And, indeed, objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.
She opened her eyes to the sound of a howling sound that made the air bleed. A barbed tentacle thrust itself through her chest wall. Her sternum split into shreds, toothy like a tree branch torn apart in a windstorm. Her ribs snapped like large dry twigs. An inky darkness streamed from the gaping, jagged hole in her chest. The darkness contained all the dirty things that kept her from plunging head first into the oil slick of pain waiting for her beneath the surface. A stream of dirty things that once seemed so pretty, that once seemed like a kind of life support, had become a hemorrhage, exsanguinating her vampirically.
A malevolent voice whispered in her ear, “It’s closing time my dear.”
She tried to speak. The words formed themselves on her lips, though they had no sound. No. I still have time. I saw, in the mirror. It was so far away.
The voice laughed maniacally, then replied, “My dear, objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.”