Always Check Your Mirror for Gateways to Hell, Especially During CB (No, Not That Hokkien Phrase) 

by Seh Wei Lin

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Entry 1:

 

I can’t remember the exact day I had started seeing her around; a good guess would be on the day PM Lee had announced the start of “circuit breaker”. The repetitive schedule of life had been broken for me. I terminated my internship and holed myself up in my room, as if moved by some patriotic love for the nation to “break the chain”. It had been a much welcomed shift for me; I was bored of living and even more tired of keeping up with the world. 

 

In hindsight, if I hadn’t quit my job, perhaps she wouldn’t have appeared, and I wouldn’t have made that impulsive decision. If I had chosen to move in with my parents, perhaps I would have never even caught a glimpse of her. If I had just sought help in getting rid of her, I wouldn’t be here right now. There are too many ‘if’s, and too little that can be undone. 

 

Entry 2:

 

It started with the mirror in my bathroom. When I stood before it, little details started shifting about, like my face was a game asset struggling to be rendered. Everything was blurrier than usual, my nose a little too flat, my skin a little too clean. The harder I stared, the more uneasy my reflection felt. Everytime I blinked, the mole on my face shifted around listlessly. The first day this happened, I went to bed without brushing my teeth. 

 

I got used to this tiny anomaly rather quickly. No matter how much my mole shifted, or how clear my skin became, it was still me in the reflection. A face that was never pleasant to look at hardly becomes more bearable, even under the influence of weird reality warping instances. Instead, I took up staring at the mirror, quietly daring to move as I stood still. I would whisper in my mind, calling it to move, to reach out and claw at my eyes. Needless to say, I never quite managed to taunt it into moving.

 

Entry 3:

 

In horror movies, ghosts and demons do not proclaim their presence with a bang. They slam doors, turn off lights, rock empty chairs, poking and prodding at the edges of people’s sanity like a juvenile with a crush. She was not a demon, or a ghost, but she slowly crept her way into my apartment in the same manner. Soon after the mirror incident, I started finding items misplaced around the house. There would be a second cup, visibly used, sitting in the living room. I would wake up to my laptop turned on, with my Steam records showing someone had gamed throughout the night. My old literature texts would have new tabs on them, from post-its I never knew I owned. 

 

At that point in time, I began to believe that something or someone was living with me, lurking in the shadows unseen. It might have seemed foolish, but I found that I was barely alarmed by the possibility that my house was either haunted or possessed. I would vastly prefer being killed by a demonic entity than festering mindlessly for another 50 years before disintegrating.

 

Entry 4:

 

The weird shenanigans continued, and I eventually accustomed myself to cleaning up after whatever meals the new tenant had. I washed up their half-empty cups of green tea, vacuumed up their biscuit crumbs and pretended I ate 2 slices of cake instead of 1. Whoever or whatever was out there, they showed little signs of malice or agitation. The greatest harm they were causing was to my supplies; I had two mouths to feed instead of 1 now. Even then, it was never a huge problem for me. I could still make grocery runs once a week, and my parents would often mail over fresh produce. 

 

I was starting to wish I could communicate with them. Their love for gaming at night had caused some unwanted disruptions to my sleep.

 

Entry 5:

 

I finally caught a glimpse of it, well technically speaking, her. I had my suspicions, as she seemed to like the things I did, but I was mostly convinced it was impossible.

 

She walked down the hallway at around 11pm, when I was already in bed. Though I was never a light-sleeper, the sound of her footsteps woke me that night. I turned onto my side to peer out the door at the hallway. There she was, making her way to my study desk in the living room. The chair gave its customary creak as she sat down to begin her nightly gaming session. I remember I said to her, “could you please turn off the light? It’s too bright here.”

 

In the fraction of a second she took to react, I realised who she was. Whether she replied or not, it didn’t matter to me. The lights flickered off within a blink, but I could already imagine how her voice would have sounded like. After all, if she looked exactly like me, she would sound the same as well.

 

Entry 6:

 

I’ve been trying to remember the way things unfolded, to write them down so I never forget what happened in the future. It’s only been a week, yet my memories are jumbled, as if I developed Alzheimer’s at break-neck speed.

 

Nothing much happened after my first words to her, and we kept up our routine of living with each other. A silent rule was kept between us at all times: never be in the same room at one time. When I entered the bathroom, she would take the chance to slowly shuffle elsewhere. Our paths never intersected.

 

As time passed, we grew more and more accustomed to each other. Our routines ran with the smoothness of a pair of well-oiled gears, gliding silently along our own asymptotes. As odd as it may be, I knew exactly where she was going to be. It seemed as though she did too, as if we were unconsciously living in sync. 

 

In all honesty, I wouldn’t have objected to seeing her at least once, but it didn’t seem like she liked that idea at all. 

 

Entry 7:

 

Unfortunately, as I suspected, large patches of my memory have disappeared. I can no longer remember the details of the days following the first month of living with her. Perhaps it is the isolation of staying at home all day getting to my head, or perhaps it could simply be my brain degrading after not being in use for a month. Instead, I have taken up linking our milestones with major developments of the pandemic in Singapore. 

 

3rd April, PM Lee announced the circuit breaker, and she took up residence in my house.

 

14th April, the 10th fatality in Singapore due to Covid-19 was announced and that night, I spoke to her for the first time.

 

22nd April, PM Lee announced a 4-week extension of the circuit breaker and my memory started to fail.

 

It is easy to see that only memories pertaining to her have been lost, ever since we started to interact. As much as I believe that she had not deliberately erased my memories, a sense of irritation towards her had started to form. 

 

Entry 8:

 

There is something I have managed to remember at last, although the date of the event still escapes me.

 

It was lunch time, and I was seated at the dining table, ready to dig in. It had been an hour earlier than my usual meal time and that day, I made 2 portions rather than 1. A little past noon, I dug into my meal quietly, waiting in anticipation for her arrival; she always made her way to the kitchen around noon for her meals. 

 

Admittedly, I never consulted with her, never thought to ask her if she felt comfortable with any of this. I never felt the need to, as I knew she would always reject any direct contact. I am a coward, naturally, she would be as well. When she approached the table, I neither raised my head nor did I directly address her. Instead, I just continued with my meal and allowed her to hover about the dining table in confusion. 

 

After a lengthy silence, I nodded and gestured to the seat opposite me, cutlery and meal already in place. It took another minute or so before I heard the scrapping of the chair. Peeking upwards, I saw that she had sat down and had started eating her plate of fried noodles. I stopped short of seeing her face, but her hands were exactly the same as mine— pale, stubby, with nails kept just a little too long. Even the awkward angle she held her chopsticks at was the same as how I held mine.

 

By then, I had polished off my meal, and I sat there for a while more, watching another me slowly enjoying her lunch. It was a peaceful afternoon, the two of us isolated, and safe from the chaotic world outside.

 

Entry 9:

 

At this juncture, I would like to posit that whatever I did after our lunch, I do not believe anyone has the right to lay judgement on me or my decisions. It had been a release for me, like someone had pulled the tab off a well-shaken can of soda.  Everything I felt and kept for all the years, they crept up my throat constantly, threatening to claw their way out. 

 

I saw the opportunity and grabbed it with my hands; it burnt, but it was my precious release. I do not expect anyone to understand or accept my actions, and I’ve always known that it was reckless and brutal. But, who can know what I thought of when I made that decision, when they cannot inhibit my mind nor see through my eyes? The cleaver in my hand is to you a weapon, but to me, a key.

 

Entry 10:

 

She turned just seconds before the cleaver fell upon her, resulting in her face being spliced down the side. Until now, I’m still unsure if she felt pain to the same extent that we humans did. She didn’t scream, made no sound other than the dull thud of her head hitting the table face first. I had wedged the blade too far into her skull, which had seemed absurd given my weak arms. I tugged and tugged, but the cleaver refused to budge.

 

At that moment, she turned her head to face me. I was so sure she had stopped moving, stopped breathing, that I let the handle of the cleaver go in shock and staggered backwards. I watched as she tried to rise from the chair, struggling to gather the strength in her arms. Stunned, I simply stared at her, frantically wondering if I should stop her.

 

She fails and falls off the chair, onto the floor.

 

Her head lolled to the side, streaking the white tiles with a dash of red as I moved towards her tentatively. Another hard tug on the cleaver pulled it out of her face, dredging out a particularly squishy section of her eyeball. My hands were trembling more than ever, the slippery handle of the cleaver sliding out of my grip within seconds, clattering against the floor.

 

I slid down onto the floor next to her and sat there, spacing out for the next few hours.

 

Entry 11:

 

I know what I did to the body would’ve seemed disgusting to others, but I simply cannot muster any sense of disgust or revolt at my own actions. Even when faced with the reality of it, as I am writing it down, I feel nothing for my act of violence against my double. It is what it is, and nothing can be changed now. 

 

I dragged her body into the shower, and dropped her head unceremoniously. The shower was too small, and her legs bumped against the glass panels, sending a shudder throughout. The job had barely started and I was already out of breath.

 

Starting with the torso, I made a y-incision down the front of her chest. I hadn’t known what to do, so I clumsily mimicked what I saw on tv. It was nasty, plunging my hand in to claw out the insides. Singapore’s hot and humid weather bore down on me, as perspiration gathered everywhere. The warmth that had yet to leave her body smothered my arm in an uncomfortable pool of sticky heat.

 

The limbs were separated next, arms and legs segregated from the torso and cut along the joints. I did it all with the cleaver, chipping away at the joints until they gave way. It was awfully difficult, and I found myself wondering if that was why my neighbour refused to follow in his father’s footsteps to be a butcher. 

 

When the head came off, I picked it up and stared at it. If I were a main character in a Shakespearean tragedy, I would be monologuing about life and death for about 6 hours to an uncaring audience. I am not a main character, let alone a Shakespearean one, so I simply savoured the flat look branded into her still eyes. She would never know that I’d finally gotten what I’d always wanted for years.

 

Entry 12:

 

 I'm writing later than expected, about 2 weeks after I disposed of her. I had packed her into plastic bags, and took her out the house for her first trip around the island. I quietly lauded myself for reusing the bags from my increased supply runs; save your world, save yourself.

 

I am sure she never left the house; we’re both spineless bastards, so I can say with confidence no one will ever realise there’s been two of me. 

 

With it being her first look at the world outside of the flat, I took special care to show her the key locations in Singapore, the places you would go if you were a tourist. If you were a tourist a year ago when we weren’t all holed up in our houses. With a mask on, I went all over the country with my double on a one-location-a-day tour.

I had as much fun as she did; I hadn’t seen the sun in a while.

 

The streets were emptier than they’ve ever been, and it had been clear that this delayed any discovery of her by random passer-bys. It was a long 2 weeks wait, but she finally resurfaced on television, no less. 

 

The police had found the bags I stuffed bits of her into, across the island, rotting away under the tropical sun. A poor student had found her left arm and right calf one fine afternoon, when his dog decided to relieve himself on a particularly smelly bag. The canine had knocked the bag over with its tail, and everything came tumbling out. The rest of the bags were found pretty quickly, though I suppose such cases were so rare in Singapore,that the police were eager to jump on the investigation. I wonder if he cried, screamed in shock, if he still dreams of disembodied hands clawing at him when he sleeps. 

 

It would’ve been shocking to anyone else, when the news broke that a young girl had been murdered and disembodied during a pandemic. It must’ve seemed that suddenly, the walls of their house were less safe, less sturdy. It would’ve caused even more chaos if the police had announced that several chunks of flesh were sliced off various parts of her body. While I was an amatuer at butchery, I was not so clumsy as to accidentally carve up random chunks, and the police understood that it wasn’t an accident too. Dismemberment is a tiring job, and I got hungry even faster than usual. In the 3 days I took care of her, I gained quite an appetite for meat high in protein.

 

Entry 13:

 

There is a month left till the end of the circuit breaker, but nothing seems to have changed. More people are falling to the virus worldwide, and the deaths pile up. Everyone mutters about the ‘circuit breaker’ being extended again. We all seem to know something of chance, but know nothing of fact, waiting for some form of confirmation from anyone.

 

I have waited everyday, since the police announced that a DNA test of the victim will be conducted. I am still waiting for the doorbell to ring, to open the door and find that it is not my Grab driver delivering my lunch. I am still waiting for the carnival that will unfold when the media gets wind of this.

 

I don’t think I’ll ever know why she came, or where she came from. It doesn’t matter to me any longer, but I’m sure someone out there would have to share a house with their doppleganger. Maybe I’ll leave it out, for someone who has the same woes to find, or maybe I might get rid of this somewhere, bury it, burn it or just drop it in the canal. 

 

This will probably be my last entry for now. Although I do not think they will suspect me, even a fool would know better than to keep a murder journal in their house. Whatever I do to this journal, whoever manages to read this journal, this is all my past now. She’s ceased to exist, and the me who brought the blade down on her has as well. 

 

As for now, the me who is alive and well, will continue to wait for tomorrow.