Smash The Mirror

Taking a deep breath, you step backwards three steps. You snort through her nose like a horse in heat, and you throw yourself forward. Running at the mirror—it’s not the best solution, but, by jove, you don’t have any other solution! You head forward, but your hold body seizes up, and you drop to your knees, as if your thoughts are weighing you down.

Smashing the mirror… You glance around – instinct suggests that other objects are here with which would be better to turn a mirror into pulp lethal enough to cut one’s hand. You’re in a stables, for pete’s sake! A brush with a heavy handle, a saddle, even a bale of hay if one so desired so craziness in smashing mirrors.

If you really survived that jump from the tower, what’s to say that smashing a mirror with a bale of hay won’t free a supposed prince?

Nevertheless, you brush the specks of stable-dirt off your jeans, and tilt your head to one side. The prince—that rather dashing man—is still hovering about the front of the mirror. He, too, tilts his head and his eyes follow you. Like the moon follows the Earth.

It’s kind of freaky.

Yet, you’re not the running away kind.

You wave – why are you waving? – and offer him some sort of consolation shrug. After all, you are about to punch his gorgeous face. And not in a good way. But if he wants out, that’s the only way.

Gathering yourself again, you back away, two steps this time, and storm towards the mirror. You swing your fist, and it crunches against the glass. Beads of pain rocket from your knuckles. You ignore them. You twist your hand. Punch differently. You can do this. You can free him.

After thirty seconds of punching, you’re barely making a mark. You sink your head against the pane of glass and exhale. Breathe. Your exhale marks the glass with a pattern—and then you see it. A fissure, a tiny tiny fissure.

You’re making progress!

You move away from the glass and shrug back your shoulder definitively. Confidence and smiles. With a scream of defiance, you throw all of your energy into your next punch, which sings through the air until it clangs against the glass. It’s a relief, even through your pain.

As your fist hits the glass, the image shatters along with its transparent surface. Like a lake being split in two by a branch, the mirror splits into two shards of glass

The question is—is it working?

The End

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