This is the last short story I wrote. Itâ€™s like Alice in Wonderland; she looks through the looking glass and can see into another world. Much like her own, but different. You look in the mirror, what do you see? A mirrored copy of yourself. If you move your right arm, your left arm moves, it mirrors you; it doesnâ€™t do the exact same thing, it doesnâ€™t copy you. I look in the mirror. I do not see my world, the furniture in my room isnâ€™t mirrored, and I cannot see myself as other people see me. There is no human face with a few freckles, pale skin or brown eyes. No eyebrows or eyelashes, no nostrils and no space for a human shaped mouth, with lips glossed in cherry flavoured lip-gloss. No long auburn hair streaked with gold and red. Itâ€™s just a blob, staring eyeless at me. I shouldnâ€™t say, â€œitâ€™s just a blobâ€, because it isnâ€™t. It has features, but not human accepted features. If you squint your eyes and stare long enough you can see a slither of human life, but there is little hope. The â€œblobâ€ in my reflection mirrors me. I brush my long auburn hair and it mirrors the action. It brushes its ragged cut, mustard in colour hair, clumps falling into the palm of the brush. That glam look that all girls look for, gone as the hair falls. The â€œblobâ€ now left with a patchwork head. Stare into the mirror. I dare you! What do you see? I look at the â€œblobâ€ in the mirror and all I see is a potato-shaped tomato. Itâ€™s skin red, not a dull red, not a bright red, but something in between - much like the colour of a tomato. If you stand back away from the mirror, the tomato â€“ with legs, moves back. Maybe for a split second the â€œblobâ€ does look like a human, or maybe that is just wishful thinking. What youâ€™d think are beautiful freckles dotted about the â€œblobâ€™sâ€ face, are quite the opposite. Yellow, festering pimples and boils take place of those beautiful things. Standing there you become quite tempted to â€˜popâ€™ these boils, but just looking at them makes you feel sick â€“ so there is no way you would touch them. Stare into the mirror. I dare you! What do you see? Eyes are a feature of beauty. They let you look at the world and its surroundings in the most glorious manner. I stand in my world and look into these eyes. There is no beauty inside them, only hate and desperation. Like wormholes they suck all images in and destroy them, not letting them take shape as they should. Clouding the image and making it disappear by magic, as if it never existed. The eyes, as I will call them because to call them as they are is less humane than should be called, are crusty. Full of dirt, dust and foreign particles, because these eyes have no eyebrows, have no eyelashes â€“ both, which keep foreign particles away. It is of surprise that the â€œblobâ€ can see anything at all. So pictures this in your mind, a monster, a blob with tomato red skin. Shaped like a potato with mustard coloured hair and wormhole eyes. Shall I go on further? Shall I tell you what else I see in this mirror? Look at your own face, at about the middle. You should have a nose. Something perhaps with two nostrils, that sticks out a little too far, or is plonked like a ball of play dough, that hasnâ€™t been moulded. I look at this â€œblobâ€ and see nothing that particularly stands out like a nose. I can see two holes. No witch-like nose, no humungous nose sticking straight out with nowhere to go? I squint my eyes, again, trying to see anything else. Nothing. There is nothing there. But how can anything have nose? How would the â€œblobâ€ be able to smell its motherâ€™s cooking or the roses in the garden? This I believe is impossible. I close my eyes, look away from the mirror and look back. Something has changed. There is, I tell you, something different about this reflection. I cannot tell what it is. Iâ€™ll let you decide. Stare into the mirror. I dare you! What do you see? Moving down a bit, on your face what do you see, perhaps a moustache? I know there should be a mouth, but this is nothing like a human mouth. There is a hole for food to go through, there are lips surrounding this hole, but itâ€™s strange. There is no dainty mouth, smothered in soft skin. Only lips bleeding, sore and swollen from being licked too many times by the big, wet tongue sitting inside the â€œblobâ€™sâ€ mouth. Great big blue lips that stick out from the â€œblobâ€™sâ€ red face like a sore thumb. Stare into the mirror. I dare you! What do you see? I can tell you what you see. You see the most beautiful human being you could possibly see. You have all the wonderful features your friends and family tell you about. That gorgeous flowing hair full of life and wealth, those eyes full of beauty and glamour, those lips so delicately soft, perhaps with a dap of lipstick, skin of colour and normality, black, brown or white, everything and anything that is called â€˜beautifulâ€™. You ask me what I see in the mirror? Werenâ€™t you paying attention? I stare into the mirror. You didnâ€™t dare me, but I looked. I see a â€œblobâ€ with tomato coloured skin, shaped like a potato with mustard coloured hair, patch worked across its skull. Across its face, festering pimples, eyes that hold no beauty and no nose, only bleeding lips. What I see isnâ€™t human. I know Iâ€™m human; Iâ€™ve just become trapped inside a mirror of horror. Word Count: 973