Mirror Image

The mirror wasn’t an antique. It wasn’t framed withelderberry or bedazzled with opals or scratched with eldritch designs. It was just a simple mirror like you see in most middle class suburban bathrooms. Nothing fancy, just a thing to stare at while you brush your teeth. It had been bought at a Home Depot, for crying out loud.

Later Andrew would come to believe it wasn’t the mirror, or the wall behind the mirror, or even the little duplex where this was all located. It was the pairing of them, he thought, of certain angles and materials sliding together, completely by accident, but in such a way as to create something out of nothing. Something incredible. Something damn near miraculous.

Something life changing.

He’d been living in the house for two months when the old mirror fell off the wall and smashed against the cheap linoleum of the bathroom floor. It happened in the middle of the night and he’d woken him with a start. His first thought was that the damned cat had knocked something off his dresser again, but no, Franklin was lying across his feet, eyes wide, looking as startled as he felt. So he rolled out of bed, cursing his suddenly cold feet, and stumbled, disoriented, out of his bedroom and into the living room of the little house where he lived alone. The room was a mess as usual, magazines and books strewn about, his sneakers flopped where he had kicked them off upon arriving home, but nothing that could have made that crash. He glanced into the kitchen, which was in a similar state of disorder. That only left one more room.

The mirror had seemingly just peeled off the wall, studs having giving up the ghost, slammed into the sink and broken all over the floor. It was a mess, and one he didn’t feel like dealing with at the time. He’d pick it up in the morning, or maybe tomorrow when he got home from work.

There was another thud, this time on the wall in the living room, the flimsy wall which he shared with his neighbor.

“For Christ’s sake Andy, what the hell you doing over there?” It was the voice of Kenny, the once welder, who lived in the adjoining duplex. Not a bad guy, if a little nosy. Sorry to rouse you out of your armchair, Andrew thought. What episode of Family Feud are you missing?

“Sorry, Kenny. Mirror fell off the wall. Everything’s fine though.”

There was a snort that Andrew could hear through the wall. “Damn cheap ass construction if you asked me.” Andrew had not. “You should complain. Someone could have gotten hurt.” He snorted again and Andrew did as well. Both men knew that complaining to this landlord was akin to squeezing blood from a stone.

“Right,” Andrew said dryly. “My oven hasn’t worked since I moved in.” Not that he was a big cooker. The microwave tended to suit all his cuisine.

“We should grill out sometime,” Kenny said.

“Talk about it tomorrow,” Andrew said.

“Sure. Tomorrow. Night.” Andrew couldn’t quite hear the beer can popping open and the recliner settle back, but he knew it had happened just the same.

The adrenaline was fading, he rubbed his eyes and failed to stifle a yawn. Bed, he thought, but before he shuffled back down the hallway something made him glance into the mirror. For a moment he stared, unable to process what he was seeing. The empty space where the mirror had been there was now a hole, a space in the wall where colors swirled. And they didn’t just swirl, they seemed to move toward him, then away, a three-dimensional vortex. It made him queasy, like he was seeing something his brain wasn’t wired to process, and he shut his eyes again. Counting to five, he opened them back up. Bare plaster, a rectangular shape a shade lighter color than the surrounding wall, stared back at him. His stomach rumbled uneasily, then settled.

“No microwavable fish sticks for dinner. Never again”, he said, shaking his head. He flipped the light switch off, shuffled back to his room and flopped onto the bed. Franklin joined him a moment later, already purring fit to drown out a lawnmower.

I’ll eat a salad tomorrow, he resolved, before sleep took him. Plenty of roughage.

He skipped breakfast as usual, unless you counted the half pot of black coffee, and for lunch he did, in fact, not have a salad. He felt vaguely guilty about this, but he had to use his break to visit Home Depot to buy a damn mirror, and so a microwavable burrito it was.

If you think about it though, all burritos are microwavable, he thought. Confucius say.

Absolve me of my diet sins. He made the sign of the cross as he finished loading the mirror into his hatchback. Taco Bell forgives.

Putting the mirror up after work was a hassle, and at one point he nearly broke down and called Kenny over to help, but a tiny bit of lumberjack-caveman pride flared up inside his 21st century wifi-starbucks-frozen-burrito skull, and he persevered. He even got it up straight. Relatively. He grinned into the mirror when he was done, adjusted his hair, and went out for a beer to celebrate his newfound success as a man.

At no time did any strange optical illusions (possibly caused by cheap fish flavored food items) appear. Those would wait for the next day.

Which was Friday, normally a cause for celebration, but, in a Lumbergian display, his boss asked him to work late. By the time he left work his friends had already headed into town and he was too exhausted to follow. He wasn’t, however, too exhausted to grab a case of beer from the convenience store on the way home, get sloppy drunk watching a baseball game, turn on cartoons and pass out before 10 pm. He woke up at midnight still mostly drunk and nearly texted his ex-girlfriend before the tiny sober man in his head screamed at him to stop. For once he listened, mostly because the tiny man in his bladder was even louder.

He stumbled off the couch (Looney Tunes was blasting from his television, he muted it before Kenny complained), and into the bathroom. He had a motion sensing nightlight here for this express purpose; no reason to ruin his sleep filled eyes with the harsh glare of florescence. Instead, a small green turtle light smiled at him, filling the bathroom with a glow not much brighter than the flickering of a candle. It was soothing. He smiled at the turtle (A nice little guy, really, if you thought about it), finished his business, zipped up (he hadn’t bothered to take his pants off), flushed, and turned on the faucet to wash his hands.

He froze. A shiver ran up his spine (something he had read of happening, but never actually experienced), goose bumps flared on his arms, and his breath caught in his mouth. Something was terribly wrong. Something was horribly out of place, and, even more horribly, he had no idea what it was.

He forced himself to breathe and take stock of his environment. The shower curtain was open, no serial killer lurked there waiting to strike. The cabinet below the sink was closed, but Andy was certain no one could fit in there. Right? Maybe a killer dwarf. He’d seen that movie. Cold water splashed over his hands. This was normal. He forced himself to look in the mirror. There was no one behind him. He was absolutely certain of this.

He was certain of this because there was no reflection in the mirror. Well, not no reflection. The bathroom reflected just fine, thank you, wallpaper zigzagging back and force on the wall, empty towel rack (the towel was lying on the floor where he normally left it). It was he that wasn’t bothering to show up.

He blinked, slowly. He was drunk, that was all. He was asleep. A dream. A drunk dream! It was simply impossible for his reflection to not exist. That’s not how physics worked at all.

Right?

And yet, no matter how much he stared, no matter how his eyes widened (if there had been a reflection, you would have been able to see nearly his entire cornea, he was sure) his mirror double refused to appear.

Andy panicked. He grabbed frantically at the door knob, forgetting he had left it open, slipped, fell, slammed his knee into the tile floor, shouted in pain, and crawled out of the bathroom like he was participating in a boot camp drill. He didn’t stop till he was behind the couch, panting, his knee throbbing.

He decided not to go visit the bathroom again until he was sober. The bushes outside would suffice and the neighbors could just get the hell over it. Eventually he fell asleep, right there on the floor.

They say time healed all. Sleep wasn’t quite that good. He woke with a splitting headache and a sore leg. Franklin was sitting awkwardly on his stomach, nonchalant about the whole situation as usual.

One too many, he thought, grabbing the side armrest and pulling himself up. His knee tweaked. Six too many, he corrected himself. He limped to the kitchen, heated up some black coffee left over from two days ago, and poured it down his throat. He fed the cat in a vain attempt to shut him up. He settled on the couch (Scooby-Doo was on now, silently running from some sort of swamp monster) and tried to wake up. He found he could taste his own mouth and he imagined a film of green slime related to the villian on the television growing there. He resolved to brush his teeth. He was halfway to the bathroom when he remembered the events of the night before and skidded to a halt on the cheap faux wooden tile.

He shook his head and made another resolution, to drink less. Or drink a better quality of beer (not that that would be difficult). Still, he paused outside the bathroom door and slowly stuck his head and shoulders around the door frame. His bleary eyed, tousled hair reflection stared back at him, mouth agape. He rolled his eyes. His reflection complied. He waved. His reflection waved back.

“Everything is copacetic,” he said, and his reflection mouthed the words back at him.

Snickering and feeling foolish, Andy entered the bathroom fully. Tossing his clothes to the floor, he blasted the hot water and entered the shower. Standing under the nozzle he imagined his hangover sloshing off him, swirling into the drain. It was good to actualize. When he was done, he pushed the curtain to the side and cursed. No towel. Well, no matter. He lived alone, and was pretty sure Franklin wouldn’t mind. He brushed his teeth, and since the mirror was behaving and he was feeling much better about life in general, grabbed the floss. A special occasion indeed. He had just finished the top row of teeth when he realized that even though he was naked and dripping, his reflection was wearing a towel. Two sets of eyes widened at the same time. For the second time in twelve hours, he crawled out of the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later he dared peek around the corner of his couch. The bathroom door stood ajar, ominously. Beckoning.

“It’s Saturday,” he said to himself. “You should be enjoying yourself. Not hiding from mirrors.” An old story stirred in his head, something he’d read in one of those horror books for children he’d bought from the book fair in elementary school, the ones with all the terrifying pictures. The story had told of changelings, mirror folk who swallowed you up and took your place, smiling and nodding to your friends as if they were you, living your life. He shuddered. Why did they let children read those, anyway?

Franklin rubbed up against his leg and Andy had a sudden idea. He picked up the squirming cat, screwed up his courage, and stalked into the bathroom. For a long moment he just stared straight ahead at the still wet tub, then he spun 90 degrees to his left.

His reflection stood there, eyes agog, holding Franklin…almost. Franklin was a big cat, spoiled and furry. The cat in the mirror was black and white, but the cat Andy was holding, his Franklin, was grey and brown. Other than that, they were identical.

Andy had no idea what to do. He stared, his reflection stared back. Most likely less than a minute passed, but it felt like hours. Andy’s feet were frozen to the wet tile.

His reflection acted first, and when he did Andy flinched but held firm. Slowly the mirror Andy set his cat down, on the floor out of Andy’s field of view. Andy followed suit quickly (Franklin was beginning to use his claws). Another long moment followed, and then the mirror Andy raised his left arm (wait, that would be his right!) in a greeting. Feeling like he was making first contact with an alien species, Andy did the same. He couldn’t help grinning at how ridiculous the situation was, and his reflection did so at the same time. The two grins dropped at the same time.

Did he have the same thought I did? Andy thought. And then, Is he having the same thought right now?

He felt his pulse rising and realized he wasn’t breathing. He forced himself to inhale, then exhale slowly.

I have to get the hell out of here, he thought, and did so. From the corner of his eye he could see his double watch him leave. Could he see him down the hallway, if he pressed his face against his mirror? He haphazardly threw some clothes on, and nearly flew out the front door. Kenny was outside grilling on his tiny grill. He was wearing a white tank top that was yellowing around the edges and shorts decorated like a Hawaiian shirt.

“Hey Andy,” Kenny said, nodding to him and gesturing at a pile of steaming brats. “Hungry?”

Andy’s stomach turned completely around. “No thanks,” he managed. “Going for a walk.”

“You alright? Looking a bit pale.”

“I’m fine!” His voice sounded brittle in his ears.

“Maybe some exercise would do you some good. Too many video games.” Kenny was very down on the concept of video games.

“Too many beers,” Andy managed, and Kenny laughed.

“No such thing!”

A long walk ensued. Andy tried to think things through, to use logic and reason. His brain rebelled. Horror stories flew through his mind, he imagined hands jealous of his reality reaching through his mirror, pale fingers grasping, trying to drag him through to be locked forever in some pale, gloomy reflected reality.

He thought about mirror monsters. At least I know it’s not a vampire. Too tan. Did the sparkly sort reflect? He had never seen those films.

After a bit of reflection (ugh), however, his mirror friend hadn’t looked hostile. In fact, he’d looked just as surprised as Andy felt when they’d noticed each other. He’d even smiled, briefly and disarmingly.

Was it possible it was just as bizarre an experience on the other side? And what exactly was the other side?

“Parallel universes” Andy said out loud, earning an odd look from a woman walking her dog nearby. “I saw it on an old Star Trek episode,” he told her, and she nodded as if this made a lick of sense before disappearing quickly around a corner. “Parallel universes,” he said again. “Hmm.”

He turned, making his way quickly back to his house, slipped inside, and without going anywhere near the bathroom, grabbed his laptop and slipped back out. A few minutes later, ensconced at a local coffee shop in the most remote booth, he began a bit of research.

Two hours and six cups of coffee later, he leaned back in his chair, wide eyed. It was all there. It was barely even theoretical! He couldn’t say he understand the exact science behind it (his best course in school had been Getting High Behind the Dumpster, for which he had received an A+, and the vagaries of quarks and electrons made but little sense to him) but such titans as Hawking and Feynman (names even a plebe like Andy recognized) acknowledged the possibility. No one had proved it, of course…

Until Andy had installed a mirror from the Home Depot, that is.

His mind whirled with possibilities, and he realized he still had no idea what to do. But what…what if his mirror double, the other Andy (did they share the same name as well as looks?) was doing this exact same thing at this exact same time? The mind boggled.

A thought that had been scrabbling at trapdoor of his lower mind suddenly burst through. It was such an insane thought, so unlike him in its boldness that he gasped. A passing waitress gave him a funny look.

What if he could communicate with the mirror him?

After a while, he walked to the store and bought a notebook and a pen. When he returned home he sat on the couch for. Finally he picked up a pen and wrote carefully. He glanced down at his work.

HEY? It asked, in large capital letters.

He ripped the inane page out and threw it on the floor. After a moment he put pen to paper again. Satisfied, he crept to the bathroom, and flipped the light switch. His double stared back at him, a bit disheveled looking himself, and holding his own black and white notebook. After a moment, both he and the mirror man grinned. A bit nervously, but friendly enough. For a moment Andy worried this was a normal reflection, that he’d imagined everything so far (early onset schizophrenia, blood clot, brain tumor) but then he noticed the mirror Andy was wearing a black shirt. His own was grey. Alright then. This was happening. Andy opened his notebook up and held it to the mirror just as his double did the same. It took him a moment to decipher the writing, as the letters were backwards (he hadn’t thought of that either!) but large and written in big block lettering to make reading easier. HELLO, it said. And then underneath that, THIS IS WEIRD, ISN"T IT?

It was the exact same thing he’d written, although in blue ink instead of black. Even the handwriting was the same. The other Andy grinned at him, less nervously this time, and Andy felt himself smiling back in much the same way. Or exactly the same way, he couldn’t tell.

FIRST EVER COMMUNICATION WITH AN ALIEN WORLD, the other wrote next. THOUGHT ALIENS WERE SUPPOSED TO BE GREEN.

SOMEONE CALL NASA, Andy wrote back, wondering if they had the North American Space Agency over there. Wherever that was.

NASA WOULD SHIT ITS COLLECTIVE SELF, was the response. Andy nodded. This wasn’t exactly the first contact they had been expecting, grey aliens be damned.

They had NASA, it was true, but there were differences. One night a week later, Andy had paused their mirror conversation pleading hunger, and he’d made a trip to the closest fast food place. Upon returning Other Andy, had stared at the bag of food, left his own bathroom and returned fifteen minutes later with his own bag of burgers, which he’d held up to the mirror so Andy could get a better look. In Mirror Land, the golden arches were called McCarneys it seemed.

In the weeks that followed, Andy learned quite a bit about what he began referring to as Earth Plan B. It was nearly the same as his own native Earth, but there were some marked differences. The Presidents had veered off at some recent point, and while Andy currently had the first black president, Andy 2 had the first female. The Braves had never come from Milwaukee, instead Atlanta had a team called the Eagles. Many of the players were the same, however. Most actually. In fact, most everyday facts remained constant through the glass.

Andy 2 also didn’t like being called Andy 2, so they settled on Andy 1 (himself) and Andy A (his mirror double.) Everyone wins. It was cognitive dissonance in a very visceral sense. Andy knew he was Andy, or at least the original Andy, but Other Andy surely felt the same way. Or did he? Maybe Andy A knew he was an imposter, but continued to pursue this farce. But for what reason?

Andy pushed such thoughts away. Other Andy wasn’t a bad guy. They shared a secret, a wonderful secret. They had discussed possibilities of other worlds than theirs. It seemed likely that somewhere, two other versions of themselves had connected in a similar way. Maybe the one thing that was similar in all possible worlds was that Andy always found another Andy. Maybe they were supposed to connect, to communicate. Andy B and Andy the Second. Andy 101 and Andy D2. Social conservative Andrew and Drag Queen Andi. Lizard Andy and amorphous blob Andy, what a pair!

They spoke about their shared history. Same parents. Same high school. Both their first pets had been named Fred and had been run over by their older sister the week she’d gotten her license. Their older sisters? Both named Stephanie, both married to a stock broker named Jed, and both bitches. Andys were decent enough guys. There wasn’t likely a world where an Andrew Hitler reigned.

Some of the smaller differences rankled Andy, though. His double didn’t live in the same place, geographically that he did, but in a wealthy nearby suburb, having replaced original Andy’s duplex with a sizeable house. He’d just put a Jacuzzi in. When Andy 1 had pressed Andy A about how he’d been able to afford it on his IT salary, it turned out that the second Andy had graduated from the very college that he himself (Andy 1, that is) had dropped out of. He worked as an editor for a little publisher, and did very well for himself. There’d been talk of children.

With his wife.

The first time Andy had seen her, she’d walked in on one of their little talks. Andy A had forgotten to lock the bathroom door, and his pretense of tiling the floor (an excuse to spend an inordinate amount of times in the basement bathroom) seemed a bit flimsy. Luckily she’d been focused on her husband, that other Andy, and he’d ushered her quickly outside. She hadn’t glanced into the mirror. If she had, Andy was sure she would have seen the blood drain from his face. He’d noticed the wedding ring on the Other before, but they hadn’t discussed it yet.

It was her, the ex. His hand clutched reflexively at his phone, so strong to talk to her the urge suddenly was. He left the bathroom, made his way to the fridge and grabbed a beer. His hand shook briefly before he quieted it.

Not her, he told himself. Different world, different Elle. Different Andy. Relax. He drained the beer, but found it was impossible to shake the image of her. She’d looked great, happy. Not red eyed and exhausted, like the last time he’d seen her. Not her. His her. His version. He actually scrolled through the contacts on his phone to see her name. He set the phone on the counter and went to bed.

The next morning his car wouldn’t start. His mind raced as he walked to the bust stop and he couldn’t concentrate at work, instead staring at the drab wall of his cubicle for minutes at a time, and left for lunch early. The damnable phone burned a hole in his pocket. He gave in, flipped the cheap case up and texted her. Some innocuous query. He forced himself to wait twenty minutes, and when there was no response, he called her. The line was disconnected.

She lived near the office. He could walk by. Maybe she’d be home, in her little garden, or walking her little dog. He’d like to see her, the actual her, not the mirror version. “Elle,” he’d say. “How are you?” “Oh, just getting some exercise, you know how it is, sitting in a chair all day. Gotta stretch the old legs. Hah hah.” Maye she’d invite him in for a cup of coffee. She always seemed to have a cup brewing.

His feet were moving before he knew it. Fifteen minutes later he stood across the street. She wasn’t home. A sigh of relief escaped him and he suddenly felt stupid. What had he been thinking? This was about as unhealthy as it got. He took two steps back towards the bus stop when a car pulled into her driveway. He slid behind a tree, feeling even more than foolish than before. What was he hiding from?

A man opened the driver side door as she exited the passenger. As they walked to her door he draped an arm around her in a familiar fashion. The door shut behind him. Thirty seconds later her bedroom lights flicked on.

The bus stop was miles away, the ride an eternity. His vision seemed to dim, and his chest swelled with anger, and then a sort of hollowness, and back. His hands shook. He ground his teeth so hard he could hear it. He forced himself to breathe through his nose and out his mouth. When he reached the duplex, Kenny was sitting outside, smoking, but one look at Andrews face and even he thought better of speaking. The door slammed so hard behind him some of the plaster cracked on the ceiling, sifting down like cheap snow.

He sat on the couch. He got up. Grabbed a beer. Sat back down. Got back up. Sat back down. Slammed the beer back, and then another. He put food in the microwave and forgot to turn it on. He stared at something on television without seeing it. He tried to busy himself with a crossword but broke the pen’s tip grinding it down too hard. He wanted to cry. He wanted to beat someone (a certain someone) to death. He wanted to thrash about mindlessly. He wanted to do all at the same time. He growled at nothing in particular.

He finally calmed down when Franklin settled on his lap. Stroking him, he berated himself. It had been three months. Why wouldn’t she have met someone else? Already staying the night. Well, they’d only known each other a week before she’d slept over. He wondered who the man was. Had they met at work? At a bar? Online maybe. Maybe if he’d called. He’d always planned to call, to patch things up. Why hadn’t he? What was wrong with him?

It didn’t matter, of course. He stared at the wall dumbly for an indeterminate set of time. Got up. Laid in bed for another indeterminate amount of time. Sleep failed to reach him. He hadn’t brushed his teeth and his breath tasted of hops, so he rolled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. Normally he’d peak inside to see if his other self was there, but he found he didn’t care much tonight. Even incredible things became run of the mill after the passing of time. In fact, the other was here, brushing his teeth and staring vaguely at the mirror. He smiled at original Andy, who nodded back and grabbed his own brush.

The other Andy frowned, reached into the medicine cabinet and pulled forth the notepad he kept there. In his now rather excellent backward handwriting, he scribbled “Everything alright? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Andy shrugged, reached under the sink and procured his own notepad. In his (less than stellar) backwards handwriting he jotted down “fine bit under the weathers all”. The other Andy nodded, patted his own shoulder in commiseration, waved and walked out. The light flicked off.

Andy was halfway through his teeth cleaning routine, (sides, back, front, repeat) when other Elle walked past the door in the reflected world. From Andy’s angle he could just see down their hallway. He froze momentarily, but she continued on, turning into a door further down. His chest had tightened, as had his shoulders. What was the point of having a physical reaction to such a cerebral pain? That wasn’t his Elle anyway. Not that his Elle was his anymore. He spit. Washed his mouth out. Glanced through the mirror, and adjusted his angle so that he could see into the other house’s hallway better.

It was a long hallway, longer than his entire duplex most likely. There were pictures on the wall, nicely framed. He could make out a few of them. Elle and other Andy at the beach. Elle and other Andy at their wedding, cutting the cake. Both of their faces were covered in icing. Elle and Andy with a kitten. Franklin didn’t exist in their world, or at least had never found his way to Andy 2. In the picture, their cat, a sandy tom, was licking Elle’s face.

How fucking cute.

A wave of anger and despair that dwarfed his earlier fit of emotion overtook him. He looked around wildly to find something to smash the mirror with. Maybe rip the towel holder off the wall. Maybe beat the mirror to death with his bare hands. It tormented him. He raised his fist, not caring how ridiculous he looked.

It’s not my fault, the mirror seemed to whisper at him. I’m just a portal. A looking glass. A sudden thought struck Andy: Was this how Snow White’s stepmother looked when she’d heard the news? Was this polished metal a relative of the Evil Queen’s?

“It’s unfair,” Andy said, his anger draining out of him as quickly as it had come. He lowered his fist.

Yes, it is, the mirror whispered back. Unfair. Why should he be so happy? You are not a bad person.

Why, indeed? So he hadn’t finished college. So he didn’t run marathons like the other him. He had a job His own place. Maybe not exactly a castle, but it worked. Most importantly, he was a good guy. A nice guy.

A nice guy, the mirror reflected back at him, agreeing. You deserve more. Andy felt somewhat mollified. It was nice having someone commiserate with him.

A terrible, ugly idea sprang from his unconscious into the forefront of his mind, and he thrust it away, shocked at his own audacity.

Deserve, Andy thought, the next morning, as he sat at work, staring at something pointless on his monitor. But was it possible? Later, when he was alone in the bathroom, he began to experiment.

To the Andy 2 or B or whatever, he took great pains to exert normalcy. He smiled at the other one brushing his teeth, waved when he left and was otherwise his normal, friendly self. His nice self. Even so the other Andy asked him several times if something was wrong.

How nice of him.

The real Andy always acted surprised. Of course I’m OK, long day at work, bit of a cold, allergies acting up and so on. No big deal.

But when the other Andy wasn’t around, he tinkered. There had to be a way. Light was getting through the mirror somehow, yeah? And photons were…things. They had mass, right? He looked it up, and it turned out there was a bit of an argument about that, but Andy had decided that if something was getting through, there must be a way for him to go as well.

The mirror resisted his pokings and prodings. He could almost hear it respond indignantly.

That’s not how this works. I show things, I don’t transport things. There’s a long line of very distinguished scrying portals in my wake that would be horrified at the very idea.

But Andy refused to give up. The very idea of a world where some other Andy was happy and he wasn’t was inherently wrong. It disgusted him. And so he kept a smile on his face and he despaired inwardly when the mirror refused to help him. He lost weight, and drank too much. Took up smoking again, a bad habit he’d dropped years ago.

The answer came in metal, and in angle and in beer. As Andy brooded in front of the mirror one afternoon, alone, he became aware of a low humming noise, almost to faint to hear at all. It reminded him of a distant beehive. Glancing down he found the source of the noise. A half-finished beer can, some cheap domestic, sat, haphazardly thrown on the counter near the mirror. As he watched, fascinated, it vibrated gently. He tapped it with a finger, and it stopped. He edged it back into place, and a moment later the vibration started up again. He slid it up and down the length of the mirror, and found a spot just left of center where the vibration was loudest. Frantically, he mashed it up against the mirror, beer pouring onto the counter and dripping down the sink, looking for a weak spot. At first, nothing. But he was nothing if not persistent.

The angle was important, it turned out. If you tilted the can just so, and held it like this…Andy started as the tip of the can slid into the mirror like it was gelatin. He pulled it back slowly, half-expecting it to be vaporized, the lid of the can smoking, melting. It was unchanged.

You needed a metal to start the process, but once the hole, the weak spot was open, you could pass anything through. The first time he’d put a finger through had been the bravest thing he’d ever done, but all one felt was a bit of a chill. Later, when he’d built up the courage (liquid courage, in fact) to put his entire face through, he’d held his breath, suddenly fearing that the world on the far side of the mirror had a toxic atmosphere.

Maybe they look just like me, but breathe arsenic or something. I’m going to breathe in poison, and my face is going blacken and my throat swell shut. But when he gasped in a lungful of air, it tasted just like his own Earth. There was a bit of fragrance in the air, but that was because of the little bowl of potpourri resting on the toilet tank. Elle’s work.

So the first transdimensional astronaut (dimensionnaut?) was a Budweiser can, but the second was Andy. The Good Andy, that is.

He waited until the Other was at work, waited until he knew Elle was gone. He placed a knife on the mirror’s surface, angled it just so until the mirror responded, and slid his arm through. His head and shoulder encountered some resistance, but he pushed through. It was an eerie feeling, almost as if he was exiting a womb, but soon enough he stood in the Other’s bathroom. He crept into the hallway, listening, but the house was silent. He moved through rooms like a burglar, in a house that should have been his. He trailed his finger along walls, sat in the sofa, even lay in the master bed. He twisted faucets in the kitchen and peeked into the fridge. He opened the front door cautiously and peered out into a large, well-manicured front lawn. A pretty little neighborhood, far from the trashy, going to pot area he lived in.

He slammed the front door closed. A noise from behind him caused his heart to leap into his throat. He was caught. One of the neighbors had seen him through the windows. What would they do? Could he pretend to be the Andy of this world? Maybe they’d lock him in some lab and do experiments. He wouldn’t tell them about the mirror, or how he’d traversed it, he decided suddenly. That was his secret and his alone.

All this was decided in the fraction of a second before he turned. Sitting on one of those small, decorative and useless tables women seemed to enjoy so much was the sandy tomcat. Franklin 2. Franklin sub-par.

“This must be very confusing for you,” he told it. Confused, the cat cocked his head at him. It knew something wasn’t right. Weren’t cats supposed to see ghosts? That was unsettling. “But you’ll get used to it.” He paused. “I hope you like other cats.”

There was a moment of panic as he returned, when the mirror refused to open. He was stranded! Would he stay here, and introduce himself in person to the other Andy? Or would he skulk off and find his way in this world as some sort of dimensional vagrant? But, after a bit of panicked fumbling, the location of the exit (the keyhole) turned out to be on the opposite side here; the Mirror Image. He wormed his way back through. Back in his own world, he felt strange. The colors seemed washed out. This wasn’t home anymore. Had it ever been? Had he been happy here? He couldn’t seem to remember a time.

Soon enough, he thought. Things will be as they should.

He stopped going to work. When his boss called to check up on him, he told him to go fuck himself and hug up. This made him smile genuinely for the first time in weeks. His cash reserves would last him another week or two. Plenty of time. He kept up his façade with the other Andy, smiling and nodding and keeping up the moronic small talk.

YOU LOOK BETTER, a sign from the other one said, and Andy nodded and smiled and wrote back, I FEEL BETTER.

When the other Andy was at work he experimented. He found he was able to move small objects with him, and with a bit of trickery, larger objects. More importantly, he was able to drag objects back with him. This was important. He refined his plan, looking at it from every angle, every possibility. He set a date and marked it down on his cheap free calendar.

The mirror sulked, he swore, but could do nothing to stop him.

He had nightmares, which he ignored. His stomach hurt sometimes. But he also had pleasant dreams, those of an Elle that loved him, that wanted to marry him, an Elle that slept in his bed every night, and that thought sustained him through the hard times.

The day came. He put Franklin, much to the cat’s discontent, into his cat carrier and set it outside the bathroom. He set the baseball bat on the floor next to the counter and waited. They’d set up a time to talk. He was early. He breathed deeply. He was calm. Collected.

Andy 2 appeared right on time, as usual, with something already written on his sheet. Some nonsense about work. A promotion? Andy wasn’t paying attention. He’d already written something down too, in his now nearly perfect mirror scrawl:

WANT TO SEE SOMETHING?

The other was surprised, but nodded. Andy motioned with his finger, come here, and leaned in to that special part of the mirror. He’d managed to attune it to the metal ring he wore in his finger now, no need for aluminum after all. He gestured to the keyhole, and motioned his double there. Other Andy looked surprised, but he grinned and moved his head closer.

This is wrong, the mirror whispered. This is now how I work. Don’t do this! Andy shrugged it’s pleading off and, with a cold precision he hadn’t felt in years, enacted his plan.

Quick as a whip, Andy reached through one plane of existence and into another, grabbing hold of the other him’s head. Fingers closed on short hair, and Andy had a moment of panic when he realized that they didn’t match, the hair didn’t match. He shook it off. Haircuts were easy. This wasn’t.

At just the right angle, Andy pulled, and the other came through the mirror, gasping like a fish, the shock of birth overwhelming him. Andy pulled again, and the shoulders and torso of his double came through, sticking momentarily on dimensional ether, and then with a tremendous yank, came flying out of the mirror in his entirety. They both tumbled to the floor, but Andy was quick on his feet. Dropping Andy 2, he picked up the baseball bat in both hands, fingers touching just like they taught you in little league.

The other Andy blinked up at him, once. His mouth opened and shut, and then opened again. It reminded the real Andy of a fish.

“What?” his double said, completely agog. Andy raised the bat, and paused as an unfamiliar feeling flooded through him.

Power, he thought, and he brought the head of the bat down on his other’s skull. There was a crack not unlike that of a homerun, and the other Andy crumpled. He raised the bat again, but there was no need. Andy 2 was out cold.

Franklin, crying piteously, went through first. When he was safely on the other side, Andy went back for a few more things he couldn’t bear to leave behind. A watch his father had left him. His nice leather wallet, which he’d had forever, although he’d cleaned out its contents and burned them. Any clothing he was wearing would have to be thrown away once he got to the other side and replaced. He didn’t want to answer any strange questions, as he was sure he’d seem strange enough to those who thought they knew him over there. At the last second he decided to take the bat. He’d had it since he was in high school, after all. No one should think twice about a simple baseball bat.

He glanced down at the prone form of his other. A bit of blood trickled from a wound on the side of his skull, but he was breathing. For a moment there was a sense of empathy, of sympathy, for the unconscious man in front of him. How would he feel when he woke up? It would be incredibly confusing. At first, anyway. He’d put it together, but by then it would be too late.

“Good luck,” he said to the prone form. “Maybe you’ll have a better run of it over here than I did.” He found the spot on the mirror, that special spot, and climbed through. As his head and shoulders cleared the other side, he smiled. It was done. He thought of Elle, coming home soon, and his smile widened.

A hand clamped on his ankle, still on the far side of the mirror. He shouted in terror, his voiced high pitched and echoing, then found his wits and, grabbing hold of the cabinet in front of him, dragged himself further into the other bathroom.

Impossibly, the grip on his ankle held. He’d been unconscious thirty seconds ago, how the hell was he so strong? Andy kicked, and he felt his other foot connect with something in another world. The grip on his ankle weakened, and Andy pulled himself farther inside, felt the cool rush of air on his leg diminish as he entered the bathroom completely. He turned, half hanging from the counter.

Fingers. Fingers from the far side, wiggled frantically, appearing as if by magic from the mirror. Then, to Andy’s horror, the palm appeared. He was coming through. He shouldn’t have been able to. Only Andy knew the trick.

That is Andy, the mirror seemed to say. He’s the real one, and you’re the fake.

Wiggling his body around to set his feet on the floor, Andy stared as the wrist of his other self appeared. One the other side of the mirror he saw his own face, blood dribbling down one side from the scalp wound. It grimaced, determined. Andy felt a jolt of terror, but the bat was still in his hand. Adrenaline ruled him, and he swung. Maye a few broken fingers would drive him back.

He missed the hand, but hit the mirror, which cracked. No time to think, he swung again, falling into that batters stance he’d been taught all those years before. This time the bat connected with the center of the mirror. It shattered, pieces of it falling into the sink. He had one image of a horror struck Other staring at him, and then the rest of the mirror collapsed, glass tinkling on the counter.

Not just glass tumbled to the counter. A severed hand dropped into the sink. Blood poured from arteries sliced neatly down the middle, swirling and disappearing down the drain. Andy watched, fascinated despite himself. How could that much blood fit in such a small appendage?

His vision blurred momentarily, and he fell backward against the wall, sliding down it into a sitting position. Time passed in a blur. Finally, Franklin, mewing piteously from his carrier, roused him. He made his way to the kitchen of the house, dropping the cat carrier in the living room, and grabbed a garbage bag and latex gloves from the pantry (he’d memorized the location of objects here in his previous sneakings). Then, gingerly, he put the severed hand in the bag. He picked up every piece of the mirror he could find, then swept up the smaller ones. He poured bleach into the sink and scoured it. Two bloody sponges and nearly half a roll of paper towels went into the bag as well. He vacuumed the floor, and mopped it. Glancing around, the bathroom looked good as new, minus a mirror.

That was easily fixed, though. An unpleasant thought stirred him. Or was it? Would a new mirror replicate the qualities of the old? He shoved the thought aside, and stared at the garbage bag.

It was a nice neighborhood. On one end was a golf course. On the other, scrubland. It was there he went, with a shovel he’d found in the garage. He glanced about, but at this time of day no one seemed to be around. He walked what he judged to be a mile, where a thick copse of trees sheltered him from any houses or roads. He dug a pit, sweating, out of shape. He resolved to go jogging sometime. Surely Elle would join him? He smiled at the thought, as he buried the bag with his inter-dimensional crime evidence secured inside. He and she would be doing a lot of things together. He patted the dirt down, and threw pine straw on top. Then he threw the shovel into a nearby drainage pond because he didn’t feel like dragging it back.

He returned home, whistling. He showered, put on some of the Other’s clothes (no, his clothes), and threw his old ones into the garbage. He tried to pet the yellow cat, but it snarled and pawed at him. “You’ll get used to me,” he told the tom. What was its name again? No matter. He let Franklin out to explore, and settled on the couch. There was a baseball game on. He only recognized one of the teams, but that didn’t matter. He put his feet on the table, and relaxed.

An hour later the front door opened.

“Andrew?” a voice called. “You home?”

Andy felt the smile across his face grow even bigger. “Home?” He said. An image of a severed hand flashed across his consciousness, but he thrust it aside ruthlessly. “I am. Home, that is.” He heard footsteps approaching down the hall, and she entered the room. She’d been at the gym, he could tell by her bag, and his heart slammed against his chest as she approached, smiling at him uncertainly.

“Everything alright?” she asked. “You look a bit..odd.”

“Everything’s wonderful,” he told her. “I hope you don’t mind, but…I got a new cat.”