I walked anyway, promising myself never to try and convince anyone that this actually happened.
I remembered the way I looked in that mirror; as frightened as the old man in that cell. I remembered being able to sympathise with the old man even more. My long blonde hair which was usually combed back was loose and free in a big tangled mess and my beard was wild and crazy. I looked just like him.
Of course it was just a glass pane. Even if the way the light shone off it made it look exactly as if someone was in the room next to me- the exact same, dark and dank room. It was just a reflection, like how it’s always darker on the other side of a one-way mirror.
I made my way to the road and to my relief my car was still parked unscathed under the cover of bushes where I left it. I slowly stepped inside and drove off. I turned the radio on to calm down and listened to the news. On 103.4 I heard the end of the posh anchorwoman’s story.
“…and somehow he made it out of his cell leaving no trace, but a note saying ‘Thank you. Goodbye.’”
It couldn’t be…