Mirrors

  “ The problem is, there’s just no time, never enough time.” Why must time stop? Please, keep going, let me out. I can’t stay here…  He waited an eternity, trapped within a silence, surrounded by the isolating darkness. It was like a clock, ticking away every second that passed, but not knowing if true time did progress. He was tired, he’d been tired before. Tired of the damning constants he’d lived in previously, a boring life defined by a neverending routine. Time passed too quickly then, he’d wished there was more of it. More time so he could sleep off the worries, and still have enough to deal with the issue later on. He never wanted time to stop permanently. He just wanted there to be more of it. To do the things he always wanted to do. It wasn’t supposed to be like this though. He didn’t want this at all. It was wrong, everything was wrong. He just wanted more time, not an eternity. He was tired. If it wasn’t already evident from the dark circles under his eyes, ones that he

  It was another one of those nights where the mirror was on his mind again, and all he thought of was ‘what's next?’. With the possible ideas racing through his mind back and forth, he took the chance to take another look. Fulgur Ovid, the cyborg archivist got off of his stream roughly twenty minutes ago and the first thing he did was walk to that mirror again to see what was in it this time, and all he saw was himself, but with tears in his eyes, but the tears were crimsoned. He tried to wipe the tear off of his own face, but his own face was dry. The only thing he could do was reach out the reflection and attempt to wipe the crimson tear. The thing that was irregular about this tear was that the tear was thicker and slightly clumpy, like a raspberry jam filled with seeds, than the average tear. While he reached, Fulgur stepped through the mirror entering the next danger of a phobia that could trigger a lot of fight or flight responses. Fulgur stepped through the mirror frame a

This time, when he looks into the mirror, he’s mostly prepared for the horrors that are certain to await him, even if he still has no idea how, exactly, this is happening. He’s not sure what he’ll see, or who he’ll see, but something still compels him to look into the mirror.  To bear witness.  The surface of the mirror ripples, and he can feel it, the sensation of the world fading away, growing foggier. He closes his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him no matter how uncomfortable it makes him feel. He needs to do this. He isn’t sure why, but the belief is firm, and for whatever reason, he doesn’t question it. When he opens his eyes, he sees the Archivist.  Fulgur jolts unpleasantly at the familiar silhouette. Every single one of these dreams has proven to be horrifically unpleasant, he can’t really say any of them have been objectively worse than the others (though he does wonder sometimes), but this… he rarely interacts with the Archivist. It’s a strange feeling to consider