Beyond The Mirror

Chapter One: The Smallest Change

The mirror always turns a modicum darker when she thinks of him.

It's the same old dresser Sarah has had ever since she was a little girl, just simple wood and a pale and unobtrusive coat of paint, but now there is less clutter upon it, fewer remnants of her childhood to cling to. In their place stands a single row of toiletries and cosmetics: anything from tall bottles of shampoo and conditioner to slim, glossy tubes of lipstick, and heavy-bottomed perfume bottles. There are nineteen objects in total, and each item has been laid out with exquisite care, sides touching, a line that stretches from one end of her mirror to the other. There's not a single speck of dust to mar them, everything pin-neat and in its proper place, and Sarah's stepmother is just so pleased at the way she's finally begun to take pride in her bedroom. It's a habit that began over three years ago now, a new and wonderful sense of responsibility undertaken after just one night of babysitting. Irene hardly does anything beyond pop her head around the door with the laundry these days, always gushing about just how clean and perfect everything is.

She doesn't realise that, whenever one of those cosmetics is in use, there is always another, cautiously moved to take its place in line.

She has no idea that Sarah counts her row of possessions each night, touching each still and silent sentry in turn to ensure their rank has not been broken.

She never sees the tiny scratches that mark one corner of Toby's new, big boy bed, and the left-hand corners of all the house's doors and windows. She never catches sight of the tiny iron filings that have been carefully embedded within each notch, just in case.

She doesn't know that Sarah's choice to go on living at home, attending a local college instead of one of the many others she was accepted to, wasn't a choice at all.

She'll never know just how many sleepless nights Sarah spends in front of her dresser, staring into her mirror to dread and to dream in endless succession.

There is magic and wonder in the worlds and curious beings beyond that mirror, should Sarah ever truly need them, and on those brave nights where she once dared enough to reach out to them.

Calling upon her friends from the Underground always causes a stir, shimmering ripples beneath the glass, but it's been many weeks now since last she saw them, long months since any of her happier memories have prompted her to ask them into her world for a chat, or perhaps even a cup of tea. The faces of those faithful friends are fading from her mind now, whilst that of another only grows clearer. As much as she tries to deny it, despite the measures she's taken to ensure he's kept out, it's their king that she wants.

She hasn't seen the Goblin King since the day she defied him, and yet she remains corrupted, marked by his interest. The girl in the book she used to love said the right words and won, but real life goes on after the happy ending. Sarah can't help wondering if the girl changed her mind too, long after the pages ended. She knows his offer still stands. It's almost like a sixth sense, that knowing, the unending awareness of him, and it itches inside her mind, and far deeper beneath her skin than her gnawed nails could ever reach. He's enchanted her, tricked his way into her desires with no real effort on his part, but there's no clear end in sight, and no magic phrase to make her stop wanting him. If even the thought of him makes her wet, his being alone filling her with dark delight, she knows her chances of escaping him a second time are slim.

She's not a girl any longer, and there have been plenty of opportunities to sneak the odd boyfriend up into her bedroom, but she's never taken them. She fucks in the back seats of cheap, banged up old cars, and in untidy rooms that smell of stale sweat socks, and come, and too much body spray. She lets them seduce her onto her back, or sometimes into their laps, her top bunched up beneath her chin and her skirt pulled up around her hips for easy access. Sometimes, when she tosses her hair over her face and fakes her climax, she almost lets herself forget just who she's hiding from. When she returns home after these unsatisfying encounters, smelling of Axe, and sweat, and latex, she strips away every last scrap of clothing, and stands nude before her mirror. The glass is always dark on those nights, and there's no real way of telling if she's being watched from within, and only thick fog inside her mind when she asks herself if she really wants to be. In front of that mirror, she's fingered herself to silent and staggering orgasm more times than she can remember, but she's never yet dared to speak his name.

It's a dangerous cycle, she knows, but it's one she hasn't had the will strong enough to break. The only safe way to stop it would be to deny herself, and she hasn't got the stomach for that, either. Like any addict, she finds her fix never keeps her satisfied for long. Her needs are growing, screaming louder and louder each day, draining more and more of her resources until she's desperate, struggling to hold on, and even her own expert fingers can't keep up with her demands.

In the end, the smallest change is enough to move worlds.

It's a night like any other, and when she arrives home late from Jason's, the rest of her family is already sleeping. Just as well, because she's frustrated beyond belief, and itching to get out of her clothes so badly that she starts on the way upstairs. By the time she has her bedroom door closed behind her, she has her jacket and sweater off, and is already starting on her bra. It falls to her feet, forgotten, as she steps out of her shoes and first notices the breach in her defences.

She reaches her dresser at a near run, where her widened eyes only confirm her panic. Whether caused by her own desperate hurry to leave that evening, or forces far beyond her, a single tube of lipstick is out of rank, standing at least an inch out of its place in line.

Her hands fly into her hair, pushing the heavy locks back from her forehead in disbelief as she stares at the slender, silver tube, almost as if she can will it back into place. It's only lipstick, and not even one of her favourite shades, but it means her wall against what lies beyond the mirror has been forever broken. It was never a real barrier, not half as effective as the iron filings might have been in keeping unwanted creatures away – if he has any weakness at all – but to see it fail her is a shock to the system. Her body works hard to process it, speeding along her breathing and heart rate to cope with the sudden spike of adrenaline, and yet her mind remains temporarily frozen in panic. He isn't here, not yet – he has no power over her, and she needs to remember that – but just thinking about him turns the mirror its darkest shade yet. The smooth surface is almost black, striking and almost malevolent amidst the far lighter, kinder colours that surround it. It's all him, like he's made himself at home here completely without her permission, just as he has within her mind, and all at once she has had enough. If she's going to fall into this, far deeper than the darkest oubliette he has to offer, then she's doing it on her own terms.

She slides her fingers into the small gap the tube has made, and she makes it wider, spreading her arms like Moses parting the Red Sea, but there's no pathway to salvation to be had here. As if at a distance, she hears the sounds her hoarded treasures make as they hit the floor, and she feels the heavy thud, the biting of tiny teeth on her bare toes as something shatters. She looks only into the black void before her, and knows that he stares back.

"Goblin King," she croaks, and wets her lips with her tongue. "Jareth," she says, and it's far stronger.

The mirror responds.