Chapter 2: The Mirror's Gaze
The hallway of her dorm floor was a tunnel of silent, numbered doors, each one holding its own secrets. Beth’s Keds made no sound on the industrial carpet. Her body felt like a used match—stripped, scorched, and smoldering. The library had been a bust. Greg hadn’t been there. Or maybe he had, and she’d missed him, her courage faltering at the last moment, leaving her to wander the stacks alone, the phantom scent of old paper and dust doing nothing to quiet the hum in her veins.
She’d come home empty. The voice hadn’t liked that.
Now, her key turned in the lock with a definitive click. She shouldered the door open and the familiar stench of her own inertia washed over her—stale energy drinks, unwashed sheets, despair. It was almost comforting. She dropped her bag, not caring where it landed.
You hesitated. You walked right past three empty study carrels. Pathetic.
“He wasn’t there,” Beth muttered, shrugging out of her thin jacket. She didn’t look at the desk. The closed laptop was a tombstone.
He wasn’t the point. The point was to take. You still don’t get it. You need a lesson. A visual aid.
Beth froze, her hand on the thermostat. “What?”
The mirror. On the back of the door. Take it down.
Her reflection in the full-length mirror was blurred, a blonde smudge in the dark room. She hated it. Hated the proof it showed. But her hands were moving, obeying. The mirror was lighter than she expected, the hooks slipping free of the door with a scrape. She carried it awkwardly, her own wide eyes staring back, a distorted glimpse of cleavage from the low-cut top she’d changed into before leaving.
Prop it against the wall. There. Now the lamp. Angle it.
It became a ritual. She moved like a sleepwalker, positioning the mirror so it leaned against the wall beside her bed, catching the direct yellow glow of the desk lamp she dragged over. The effect was stark. The mirror became a stage. The warped glass at its edges made her image ripple, as if she were underwater.
Now look.
She was already looking. The girl in the glass was a stranger, but a familiar one now. Plump, red lips, parted slightly. Heavy mascara making her blue eyes look bruised and bottomless. The top was tight, a stretchy black fabric that strained over her breasts. She saw the rapid rise and fall of her own chest.
Take it off.
Her fingers found the hem. She pulled the top up and over her head, her hair staticky and wild. The cool air puckered her nipples. She saw it all in the mirror. The exaggerated curve of her waist, the swell of her hips in her jeans.
Everything.
She unbuttoned her jeans, pushed them down. The last barrier was a pair of simple cotton panties, already damp. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and peeled them off, stepping out of the puddle of clothes. She stood naked in the circle of light, exposed to her own merciless gaze. A shudder ran through her, but it wasn’t from the cold.
See? This is what you are. This is all you are. Now get on the bed. Show yourself.
She moved to the edge of the mattress, the permanent dip welcoming her body. She didn’t lie back. She sat, then leaned back on her elbows, her legs falling open. The pose was vulgar, intentional. She forced herself to watch. To see the cleft of shadow, the blonde curl of hair.
Touch. And watch.
Her hand moved. She saw her own arm, tendons taut, reach down. She saw her fingers, with their chipped black polish, part her own flesh. The sight was a bolt of lightning, direct to her core. A gasp shattered the silence of the room, her reflection’s mouth a perfect ‘O’ of shock.
That’s it. Look at you. So greedy. So wet for nothing. For yourself.
She was. The slick sound was obscenely loud. Her reflection’s eyes were locked on her own hand, on the movement there, a frenzied, rhythmic pumping. The girl in the mirror was flushed, a sheen of sweat already glazing her skin. Beth’s reality fractured. She was both the watcher and the watched, the actor and the audience. The pleasure was somehow sharper, more vicious, seen from this outside angle.
Faster. You’re almost there. Watch your face. Watch it break.
Her breaths came in short, sharp pants, fogging the lower part of the mirror. She couldn’t look away from her own face. She saw the moment her control shattered—the eyebrows knitting in agonized pleasure, the lips pulling back from her teeth, the eyes screwing shut then flying open, wild and unseeing. A raw, guttural noise tore from her throat, echoing in the small room.
Now.
It hit her like a systemic failure, a total shutdown of coherent thought. Her back arched violently off the bed, her hips bucking against her own hand. She watched, transfixed, as her body was ravaged by waves of sensation it had created for itself. The silent scream in the mirror was the most honest thing she’d seen in weeks.
It seemed to last forever. When it finally ebbed, she collapsed, her arm falling away, spent. She lay there, gasping, staring at the ceiling. The mirror now showed a ruin: splayed limbs, glistening skin, a face slack and empty.
The voice was quiet for a long moment. Then it spoke, soft and satisfied.
Good. You’re learning. Remember this sight. This hunger is your engine. Everything else is noise.
Slowly, Beth pushed herself up. She avoided the mirror now, the evidence of her own need too bright, too blatant. She grabbed her oversized sweatshirt from the floor—the gray one, her brother’s—and pulled it on. It swallowed her, the soft, familiar fabric a feeble shield. She didn’t bother with anything else.
She left the mirror leaning against the wall, a judgment she couldn’t face putting away. She climbed into bed, curling into the dip, turning her back to the room.
Outside, a car door slammed. Someone laughed in the distance. The world continued, indifferent.
Inside her mind, a new thought was already forming, a casual, terrible question.
Tomorrow, the Inner Voice mused, its tone light, almost conversational. The philosophy TA has office hours. You should go. Ask him about Kant. See if he stares at your mouth while you talk.
Beth pulled the covers over her head, but the words were already in there, taking root. The essay was still unfinished. The deadline was tomorrow. And a new, more dangerous one was being written in its place.