A Broken Mirror

It was a moment, as fleeting as the click of a heel on wood.

It was like looking in a mirror. If the mirror was distorted and cruel in nature.

There was no pause in the crowd being pushed away from the protest, the moment could not last in the crowd.

But she saw it, the face that matched hers but marred with bruises and scrapes. And tears. Tears dripping slowly off the crooked nose that reflected her own. 

She reached for her holster, looking away from the mirror across the police-approved border, and then back up as her hand brushed the grip of cold metal. Colder death.

The mirror hadn't moved. Light, too light, hair braided back. Mascara that smudged under her eyes that melded with the painted bruises. Ripped clothes, all gray and black. A red patterned scarf that might've been intended to cover her face hung loose around her neck.

Eyes that looked too alive to be a ghost.

The mirror did not reflect her uniform. There was no blue in the mirror, only the harsh red around her neck and on her face. It stood out against the paleness of her body, her eyes, her hair.

That same crooked nose.

The moment was over, the crowd being herded like sheep away from the steps of the capitol building. The moment was over, the mirror lost to the crowd, their eyes no longer locked in twin-like stares. The mirror faded in and out like a red string being pulled through the grass, disappearing between the grass blades that were people.

On instinct, she drew her gun against the intruding, offending mirror that hovered just out of the corner of her eye. Her colleagues followed suit, cruel metal rising up one after the other.

The protesters were surrounded. There would be casualties today. There certainly would be at least one. 

A raised fist. Defiance in those alive, mirrored eyes. 

The flash of a red scarf over a face blinked into her line of view. The police officer didn't hesitate to take the shot.