Relative

My first attempt at writing horror in the 2nd person, I've always felt that 2nd person is difficult to write successfully however the perspective lends a lot to the horror genre, in this story I explore the concept of time relative of the observer, to us we experience time linearly however should we experience life simultaneously perhaps how some beings may as they lark in the shadows observing humanity.

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This isn't the first time you look in the mirror that hangs over the sink, in your… studio apartment where bed sheets play the ever revolving cast of contractor, separating the space in a vein attempt to prevent your life from collapsing inward, mixing the mundane trapping of your home call center with the lemony scent of an avocado porcelain shitter, between which you'll serve two thirds of your life upon. 

Again another day, something you tired of many moons ago, the monotony, the consistent continuous continuity of the fractured life you live, day in day out, you wake, you shit, you sleep. 

You look into the mirror, a smile found itself upon the face, washed against rocks for the past half decade. That smile grew in perpetuity as your eye began to leak a yellowish tinted clear liquid, with your finger you impeded the progression of the fluid before it had the opportunity to pass onto your cheek. You pulled your hand away staring closely and the mysterious odorless fluid, that thickened as you rub your finger with your thumb in a half hearted attempt to cleanse yourself. In the mirror your image has vanished, only returning in the moment of your sudden flurry of anxiety as the hair on your back stood up, the tips of your fingers turned ice blue, trying to take check of the reflection of the mirror image.  

An elderly person now stood facing you, looking, deep into your soul, they explored every corner of your sick and twisted mind, delving into your deepest, darkest machinations, diving through your wildest sycophantic fantasies, digging up your most pugnacious idiosyncratic credence, enveloping you in a tomb of unwanted thoughts, plastering your sanity across you already soluble delusion. 

Splashing your face, trying to recover some semblance of sense you claw at the image in the mirror, the water drains, spiraling, pirouetting, changing… the water thickened, turning red as chunks of black and green rotten viscera. The smell of vanish, a sour assault of shit and putrid rot, you look up, up to your reflection. 

You ran you finger along you cheek, feeling the warm, moist residue choking you as you gasp for air, surrounded by a thick flesh tomb, you try to calm yourself, they told you this would happen, they warned you over and over, you try to recall that phrase a chant to guide you through the suffocating and oppressive ordeal; you knew this would happen but still… 

Suddenly your arms, like whiplash; they straighten, rigid as your breath labors, the stench of gas and dry bile intensify as you fight to keep your feet under you, to little success. Falling backwards waves crash in your head as you hear the now liquid remains of gray matter splash against the remaining skull; wrapped in sheets of tight skin like a cheap Hollywood face lift as you're overcome by darkness… true darkness… when light is abundant yet chooses to turn from you. 

You hear a voice, someone shouting at you rallying you to your feet. You remain quiet as you try to reorientate your thoughts. 

“Not fun right? Atleast you only gotta do it the once right?”