Through The Mirror

mirrors don't reflect the soul

I see someone staring at me, their face strangely familiar. Ears flex backwards uneasily as I watch them, my eyes gazing steadily into theirs. My muzzle moves closer, whiskers bristling with curiosity. They moves forwards also, our faces so close we almost touch. Warm breath leaves a mist between us and I step back, head tilting. The mist stays for a moment before slowly fading and as I watch it something clicks.
A mirror, my breath misted on the cold glass. My watcher is me; a reflection. Yet she doesn't look like me... I don't look like me. Not how I feel I look. Because I know I have a muzzle and whiskers, I can feel my ears so solidly that I'd swear they were actually there.

Looking down I stare at my hands, flexing the fingers slowly. It's the strangest feeling, like looking at an illusion. I can see my hands clear as day, touch them and they're solid. Yet as I move those fingers, they don't feel like fingers. Were I not staring right at them I'd swear they were paws. I can feel the retractable claws, the way each toe moves. Place my hand against the mirror and I even feel my paw pads press against the glass.

Velvet Wings
2006

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