“Time holds the fate. of me and you / The mirror lies, but the images are true.” I used to laugh at these words, etched in my brain like Braille script, even though they mocked me every day. I told myself the poets were philosophical, dripping with romance and metaphors, and lived in a dreamland far removed from harsh reality. No wonder most of them were broke.
“Take a good look at yourself.” My mother would admonish me. “There’s a reason the saying goes, ‘reflect on your actions’!”
“I do, mother, trust me.” I would retort, admiring my reflection like a trusted aide. “And I love what I see.”
I continued to speak to myself, reassured that I was in control. I was called a narcissist and delusional, and that my luck would run out. Yet, I was convinced that I was prepared for that eventuality because I was precise, calm, and thorough.
I gained a reputation for being notorious and cold, but infamy never bothered me. I enjoyed my heists, or worse, with impunity, staying several steps ahead of the law. You could say I was a master of smoke and mirrors. Ha.
Until I stumbled and the law caught up with me.
No amount of mirror-gazing or reflecting could deny the damning evidence of photos and camera feeds confirming my presence at scenes of crime. It turned out detectives were following me for months.
Sitting handcuffed in the interrogation room, I gazed at the one-way mirror and smirked with realisation. The time had come to reflect and gaze at the rear-view mirror of my life. All at once.
When they spread the evidence on the table between us, I gazed at the photos and, despite my ego, agreed with the poet.
My mirror had lied to me all along.
