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Infinity Effect

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You're walking out of the room when you notice something and pause. Oh, never mind. It's just the mirror.

It's been there for a few days, since your father bolted it to the outside of the bathroom door. But it still gives you a light surprise; after all, that door had been bare all those years you've lived here, and the sight of a new addition will still take some getting used to. It's modern, new and sleek. The borders are a dulled white, straight up and down and to the side, and the dimensions of the piece are about the same height and length of a regular bunk bed ladder.

Your father picked it up at his job, which is to clean out the remaining objects of then fix up abandoned apartments, owned by a moderately large, Los Angeles based organization. Like his coworkers, upon the occasional discovery of a useful or intriguing item, they took it home, since it belonged to no one anymore.

The day passes, and soon enough, you're lying in bed, unable to sleep and shifting around uncomfortably. The only thought dominating all else and residing in your mind as of now: I should not have eaten that sushi.

Soon, your stomach creates such an ominous rumbling and ache that you can't give care for your other family members' sleeping forms, and you rush to the bathroom, cradling your pained belly. You flick the lights open, make a straight shot for the toilet, and seven minutes later, after monstrous bowel movements of gigantic magnitudes and an unorthodox cacophony of gas, you can safely say that this will bother you no longer.

You pull the door inwards to leave, but as you do, you notice something once more. An occurrence that has mystified you since childhood, something you affectionately referred to as the infinity effect. The mirror adjacent the sink faces parallel to the mirror on the door, and the reflections copy the reflections across it, creating the illusion of going on forever.

You give a heavy sigh towards it, reminiscing the faint memories of crawling onto a tacky green and red chair within a relatively fancy Chinese restaurant, and tracing oil smudges on the mirrors with a stubby little finger, entranced by the effect. You study the copies of your face, going down in a row, a slight paranoia stirring awake from the depths of your head.

You were always a tiny bit frightened by mirrors- there was just something haunting about the potential of seeing anything out of place. But you were also always something of a scaredy-cat, hiding when your parents watched a horror film, clinging to your older sibling on windy nights.

Yet... That's peculiar.

You lean in closer to inspect it. Two reflections or so in, and you noticed something odd about one of them- none of the other doubles, nor yourself as far as you know, have that minuscule little detail of a beauty mark next to your right eye.

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