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In this Journal, I write stories, and I make updates about my life. Feel free to subscribe, comment, or just read!
Short Story #1
What you see here is a short story of mine. I've actually never worked in this genre, so it probably isn't all that great. It's got a really slow buildup and a boring, predictable storyline.

I'm more experienced with fantasies and longer stories. If anyone wants, I might begin experimenting with longer stories and release them in parts. Either way, sorry for the bad quality! Enjoy!

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By Ty-Harukii

When I looked into the mirror, I wondered what I had seen. Was it a reflection? If that's what it was then I can promise, I won't ever look into that mirror again. Scenes of death and destruction flashed across the glass. Fear and terror practically radiated from the damned thing.

Those images stuck with me for years, and they still haunt me to this day. Every time I pass by that door, I know what it hides-- what's right inside the cramped space. Clothes that are covered in lint, boxes that are filled to the brim with memoirs, and perhaps even mice, salvaging the lint and cardboard scraps for their nests.

But that mirror is there as well. I distinctly remember storing it away after seeing those vivid and terrifying images. I wonder what images are flashing across its surface now. Do the mice pass by it and see the scenes that I saw? Maybe it's too dusty for a reflection to be seen.

Or, perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps the glass is in pristine condition. Perhaps that mirror still hints at some daunting nightmare. Curiosity peaked within my consciousness, but dare I look inside the closet? Dare I open the door to my nightmares?

Evidently, the curiosity that was within me faded with each step as I strode past the room. That curiosity was replaced with an ominous fear and a feeling of anxiousness. I touched the handle of the door as I passed by it, but dared not to open it.

It was past my bedtime, and the moon was high in the sky. I had work in the morning, so I rushed to the bathroom to prepare for bed. I reached over the sink and gripped my toothbrush. I dabbed a bit of toothpaste on the bristles and looked up from it into the mirror.

I dropped the toothbrush immediately upon seeing the same flashing images as I had so many years before. Bloodied bodies, explosions, and fires shimmered in the reflection. I heard distant pops within my conscience. I tore my eyes away from the carnage and moved to the shower.

As I stripped my clothes off, I opened the door to the shower and stepped inside. Giving my clothes a good toss, I reached out and closed the door. I turned around to turn the water on and let it run down my face. As I turned back around, I saw the images flashing across the glass door yet again.

I was trapped in this nightmare, terrified and shocked. The door was closed, and I was locked in a tiny place; my eyes were glued to the glass. I watched as people were mowed down in the dusty, ruined streets. Explosions went off all over.

The noise was overwhelming. Gunshots, screams, and blasts permeated my consciousness, and my ears felt as if they were bleeding. Tears streamed down my face. The images seemed so familiar that it hurt to look at.

I pushed at the door and stepped out, wrapping myself in a towel and rushing out of the bathroom. I hurried to my room, which was just down the hallway, but I could see the images still. Every picture frame that I passed glowed with the reflection of my nightmares. I saw more killing, more destruction, and heard all the sounds that accompanied the terror. I saw a man in my grandfather clock. He was smiling as he coughed up blood. His face rang several bells to me. I knew him.

I screamed as I pushed my way into my room. As I passed by the last few picture frames on my dresser, I flipped them over, so that I could not see them. I sat down on my bed and cradled my legs close to my body. My face was buried in my knees.

I had thought that these images would only hide behind the one mirror, but I was obviously wrong. These images would follow me everywhere, perhaps even into my dreams if I fell asleep. I searched my mind for an explanation, and I almost found one, but it slipped away. Like a memory of a taste that you just can't place.

I looked up from my knees and saw my closet. The sliding doors were mirrored, and I had forgotten them completely. The scene that played across these mirror was unlike any other that had been shown to me. I saw in distinct detail the order of events that lead up to the destruction. I saw people that I knew--people that I loved.

I saw myself. I saw a gun being placed in my hands. A rifle of some sort. I recalled this as it was shown to me, and everything else that was shown to me. It all flooded back from a dark place deep within my conscience. I saw that man again. Bleeding from his chest and coughing up blood, his words pierced my mind. "I love you," he said.

Tears streamed down my face as I recalled all of the repressed memories. I remembered stepping off the plane and onto the tarmac. My face was expressionless. My mind was blank. Someone walked me to a car, and I was driven away. I remembered therapy. And I remembered not responding. I remembered an operation. Electrodes had been stuck to my head. And I remembered feeling a jolt. And then I remembered forgetting.

What I saw was not a nightmare. What I saw was reality, and nothing can change that. No amount of therapy can change what I saw. No operation can reverse what I had done. And no amount of regret will erase my past.

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