I see him everywhere now. It’s almost as if, now that I’ve finally seen one of the phantoms – and I mean, really seen them – I’m tuned to it. Every now and then I catch a glimpse of another, but they’re gone just as fast and I can’t tell if they’re there or not. But the boy is always there, in every piece of glass, every mirror, every still puddle and piece of metal.
I wonder, does it count as stalking? Not that I could tell anyone, of course, because I am verifiably insane, after all.
When I first woke up, that first time when I’d fallen into the street, I was in a hospital. I can remember being terrified, so afraid that my mother had finally decided to commit me. That, after all, would ruin my future irreparably. And I believe I would be very bored in an asylum. Too many lights, not enough mirrors.
Now that I’ve seen him, I am quite fond of mirrors. He is like a friend, I suppose. Always there, whenever I look for him. He watches me, listens quietly, intently. I don’t know if he hears me, or even if he understands, but he’s there and that is enough.
I call him Shard, because… well, I’m not sure. It just kind of stuck.
I chanced across the name once when, curious in ways I cannot begin to explain – you will simply have to feel them for yourself, someday – I wanted so very badly to touch him. Maybe it was the way his hair shines, looking so soft, or the strange paper-white skin that looks like it could fall away at any moment.
So, of course, I tried. I stretched out my hand, and, surprisingly, he did the same. As if he’d had the same exact thought at the same moment. And, in that place where our hands would meet, of course I felt only glass beneath my palm.
Until the mirror shattered. Into tiny, razor sharp shards that flew out at me as though the mirror exploded.
I haven’t tried to touch him since, of course. I may be insane, but I am not crazy.