I step through the front door of the structure, and I’m immediately met with a cavalcade of false reflections. Mirrors line the walls, refracting light from the dim overhead bulbs and disfiguring my form. Couple that with the stale stench of laboratory chemicals in the air, and I’m already fighting sensory overload.
Unable to stave off my curiosity, I pass a glance at one of my reflections, and for a split second, I think I see myself as a child. I shake my head and look again, but it’s just me, only made slightly taller by the mirror. I take a few more steps before another reflection catches me off guard. This time, it’s definitely not my own reflection, but rather, it’s reflecting a version of myself. This is from the day we adopted my little sister, Anya. Little me smiles at little Anya, and I feel myself smiling in tandem.
I blink and let out a cough, and the image shifts into something new. Something bloody. My face is spattered red. Anya stands by the front door, holding a knife caked in crimson. Mom’s on the floor, gagging from the giant gash in her throat.
I forget to breathe for several moments. One by one, all the mirrors reflect the same image back at me. I blink over and over, but it won’t go away. There are just too many mirrors in this place, and they all want me to remind me of this horrible memory.