You know how everyone says, “don’t break a mirror, or you’ll have bad luck for 30 years?” That isn’t true. Well, it’s sort of true. The thing is, some mirrors don’t break… they break you.

  Sorry, yeesh. That was melodramatic as fuck. I can do better.

  Let me back up a bit.

  -

  My name is Gregory Zell and I live, or lived, a pretty normal life. I’m 29 years old, I have a pretty decent career as a paramedic, and I even own my own home.

  Shit, actually I just turned 30 didn't I?

  Damn, that hurts. Anyway. That millennial dream was only made possible by a respectable inheritance from my grandfather who bought US treasury bonds back in the 50’s, which he left to me and my brother.

  No way in hell I would have been able to afford the 1300 sqft rambler in Northern California with just that and my medic salary alone, though.

  I have an amazing, much, much, much smarter and profoundly more beautiful wife than I deserve. She’s in healthcare too. An ER nurse.

  Yes we met on the job, and yes I picked her up with some stupid quip borrowed from Scrubs. I’m not ashamed. It’s not like I quoted the Todd. It was Hooch.

  Anyway, where was I?

  Right. Life.

  Normal, near thirties, millennial bullshit. The world, post COVID, being the world… the two of us had formed our own little isolationist metaphorical city state. We never really went out any more and most of our friends were beyond a 3hour drive, one way.

  So we spent a large majority of social time gaming with them online. Weekends, being first responders/shift workers, weren’t necessarily the same weekends as the rest of our ultra cool techy friends. But we saw them when we could, and helped out whenever was possible.

  This particular day, I was down in San Francisco helping a friend move from a three-story walkup apartment in the Outer Sunset to a loft in the Dogpatch.

  Doug was always a good friend. A bit of a penchant for Magic the Gathering, but what could you do? I’m just fucking with you. I love MTG. Can’t get behind those commander decks though.

  Anyway.

  Doug, being the penny pincher that he was, he didn’t hire movers. Which he didn’t see as much of a problem, until our thirty-year-old knees began to creak under the strain of his second loveseat.

  “Do you really need four loveseats, dude?” I asked.

  “It’s not so much that I need them. It’s more so, that each room needs one.” Doug insisted.

  “Each room?”

  “Yeah. One for my bedroom, you know for my laundry to pile on. One for the guest room. One for the living room, and then well you can’t skip the office. That’s the best place to nap.”

  “I guess you do you. But, between you and me,” I said as the arm of the mini suede brown loveseat dug into my cheek as we pivoted around yet another corner of the tiny stairs, “I think it was overkill after two.”

  “Everyone’s a critic.”

  We got upstairs and through the door in another minute or so of Doug, not so comically, yelling pivot and set the suede hunk of couch down.

  This being the fourth of four couches, I laid back on it in it’s space in the living room to take a minute to check my phone. It was 4:44pm on a Wednesday and I was almost certainly not going to make it back up north before traffic hit.

  My wife, Naomi, was almost certainly pulling a double in the pit today. But I took a minute to shoot her a quick text.

  >Couch #4 conquered. Awaiting new quest.< I texted.

  >FOUR?! She texted back almost immediately. I guess she was on break, or sequestered in the supply closet for a breather.<

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  >FOUR. Anyway, I think I’m stuck here until after six at the latest. We have a few more boxes but are mostly done. We just have a few odds and ends and this big fucking ugly mirror Doug has been hauling around since college.<

  >That thing is ugly as fuck. Good luck, I love you.<

  >Love you. Work okay?<

  >Yeah. Another lightbulb guy.< She texted back.

  >IN THE…<

  I laughed out loud just as Doug was walking back into the living room with two beers, one for me and one for him.

  He was good like that.

  “Thanks buddy,” I said outloud. And then looked down at my phone to read,

  >He said he fell on it.<

  I reacted to the text with a haha emoji because why not, and then turned to look at Doug, “So we gonna finish this thing or what?”

  “Yeah man, just a few more things. I have to do a thing for work in just a second, but do you mind just grabbing the mirror? I think we left it leaning against the car. The boxes can wait. I’m just worried the wind is gonna knock it over,” Doug said.

  I went downstairs to grab the antique.

  We did leave it leaning against Doug’s Subaru and the wind was picking up. The mirror was fucking heavy though. One of those ones set in some really old timey looking wrought iron, done up with some sort of gothic looking points at the top so it kind of looked like Sauron’s helmet.

  You know the one.

  It must have been, like, fifty pounds and certainly wasn’t going anywhere. But hey, it was Doug’s ex girlfriend’s brother’s sister’s who the fuck knows mirror, and he didn’t wanna get rid of it. So, I picked it up and made my way back up to the loft.

  On the way up the five flights of stairs, I heard a door close. Maybe on the fourth floor. A big WHUM. As the wind in the stairwell picked up from the front door and echoed loudly.

  Normally, that wouldn’t mean anything. But with these old ass buildings, that meant I might be trying to finagle my way up the stairs with someone coming down the narrow things. And that might get awkward.

  So, I did the polite thing, and stopped at the third floor landing and made myself as small as possible. At 6’3” 220lbs, that’s not entirely possible, but I tried.

  “Oh thanks dearie,” came some elderly lady from behind the mirror as she scooted by, “Are you the ones moving in?”

  “Not me, ma’am. Just helping a friend.”

  “Oh that’s so nice of you, and during the weekday no less. What’s the friend’s name?”

  “Doug. He’s a good guy, he’ll probably leave you a fruit basket for the noise,” I said, straining a bit to keep the mirror from teetering over the railing as the lady made “polite” conversation.

  “Doug, oh I think I heard something about him—”

  “Sorry not to be rude, but I’m losing grip a bit of this big mirror… would you mind moving a smidge?” I asked, a little more urgency in my voice.

  She didn’t seem to hear me or didn’t care, and kept going with her story about some other guy her son knew named Doug, asking if it was him.

  I had fully stopped paying attention and was now just trying to edge my way up the stairs.

  And then there was another WHUM. The pressure differential thing that happened when someone opened a door on the ground floor as someone else opened a door in the stairwell.

  That got me spooked, and I almost dropped it. I really did. But I recovered, all the while making some sort of apathetic apology to the lady as I moved on up the stairs.

  Just a few more flights and then I’d be home free.

  And then a cat seemingly read my mind and said fuck you to your plans, and came dashing out of the 4th floor apartment. The lady had left her door open, most likely.

  And little kitty fucking cat was headed straight for her owner… through my knees.

  That’s when I lost it.

  The mirror, and my dumb ass, teetered over the black waist height stairway railing. I was barely hanging onto the thing, my whole top half bent over backwards trying to steady myself as it hung over the edge.

  I could have dropped it.

  I probably should have. But I had heard a door open and I wasn’t sure if someone was coming or going, so I hung on.

  And then it happened again. The pressure differential, or whatever it was. WHUM.

  And the rest of my body, and the big ugly fucking mystery gothic mirror, went careening over the rail. Four flights down, I was surely headed for death or dismemberment.

  See. The thing is, I’d seen a lot of really terrible things as a first responder. Some really, really gory shit.

  Like, the hang up your boots and end your career type shit.

  In my 14 years, I’d seen decapitations, lightbulbs where they shouldn’t be, double murder suicides, overdoses, woodworking accidents, and big falls.

  I was thinking about all of that, and more.

  The things Naomi would talk about that made it’s way into the ED. All the bad stuff.

  My life didn’t flash before my eyes.

  Nah.

  My mind was whirring with the possibilities of my impending doom. How would the scene look? Who would answer this call? Would I survive? How much bad luck would I have? I couldn’t help myself.

  The questions and disaster fantasies (that’s what Naomi calls them) came and went, faster than even my mind could comprehend.

  It’s like time slowed down as I fell and the only thing my brain could do was intellectualize what was about to happen. I guess it was a coping mechanism or something.

  At least that’s what my therapist would say.

  But I thought I’d for sure be thinking about my first birthday, my old dog Otto, or something… sweet.

  And just when the impact was milliseconds away, the mirror now under me for some reason, something strange happened.

  The thing started glowing.

  It was subtle at first. I’m not even sure if I can really say that, because it was within a tenth of a second. But the light didn’t start bright.

  I could see the glow outlining the mirror, a golden color brightening until it was almost blinding. A few of the pieces of iron in the frame holding the mirror lit up too. But these were red?

  Crimson?

  Salmon?

  Doesn’t matter.

  And then the mirror hit the ground. Face up.

  And I fell into it.

  And through it.