Critique this Intro

What colour is a mirror?

I'm thinking that roughly a third of you just said 'silver', a third said 'it has no colour', while the rest said 'the colour of whatever it reflects'. Right, now all of you, listen up. Find your nearest mirror. Handheld, bathroom, obsessively polished spoon, makes no difference. Now hold it up, and look at it. And I mean really look at it.

What colour is a mirror?

So you see something red reflected in the mirror. Does that make it red? No, it doesn't. Despite the fact that, from the angle you're looking at, that area of the mirror is, to all intents and purposes, red, it doesn't help. Because you can't accept that, can you? Because you know, even if you don't consciously know it, you know that you're not 'seeing true'.

What colour is a mirror?

Vision is a tricky sense to figure out. You're brought up to believe that it's purely the domain of the eyes, and while they certainly help, there's more to seeing than that. What you need to understand is that the human brain can only concentrate on an area roughly the size of your palm, as seen at the end of an outstretched hand. What you 'see' is really a mental image constructed by the brain as this 'active area' darts around your field of vision. And that, as it happens, is vitally important to understanding mirrors.

What colour is a mirror?

This is easier to test if you're short-sighted like me. Suppose you have two pieces of paper, both of which have a word written on them. You get to look at one of them, and you read what's written on it. You don't know what's written on the other one, but that's all right, as long as you know that there is something written on it. Now walk away. Get far enough away from the pieces of paper that you won't be able to resolve the words written on them. Depending on how pronounced your myopia is, and the size of the text, this can vary somewhat. Now get someone to turn over the other piece of paper.

What colour is a mirror?

If all goes well, here's what should happen. The piece of paper that was just turned over – it being the one where you don't know what's written on it – you won't be able to read it. The text will be an indistinct form to you. Fair enough, you say. Now, look at the other one. Take a look at the piece of paper that you know the contents of. What do you see? I'll tell you what you see. You can read it. Myopia be damned, you can read what's on that page – even though you shouldn't actually be able to. And the reason you can read it is because vision isn't purely visual – it's a process conducted within your brain. Because of what you know, your vision changes. This isn't a case where seeing is believing. This is a case where knowing is seeing. And this is what lets you determine-

What colour is a mirror?

What colour, indeed? A mirror will defy any attempt by your brain to assign a particular colour to it. Because you know it's a mirror, your brain will artificially create a 'difference' between an object and its reflection. It's the difference between seeing what you know is real and seeing what you know isn't really there. So what colour is a mirror?

It's not silver.

It's not the colour of its reflected surroundings.

It's not non-existent.

Subtract a reflection from reality, and what do you get?

The difference. Or do you?

It's not because mirrors are imperfect. Far from it. Mirrors are just too perfect – they create a copy of reality indistinguishable from the original. And if it's indistinguishable, you may ask, then what's to say that we're not the copy, with the 'real' reality on the other side?

You do. 'The colour of a mirror' is something that doesn't actually exist. No scientific instrument can detect it, no theorem can prove its existence. It's a fiction, engineered by your brain, with a very simple purpose – to keep you sane around mirrors. To assert the primacy of your own reality in the face of its doppelganger through the looking glass.

I told Alice about this today. She thought about it for a while, then came back a few minutes later asking me why, if this was the case, researchers often use the ability to identify one's reflection in a mirror as one's self as a test of self-awareness. Like with monkeys, she added. I, too, thought about this for a while, and then came back with the theory that, perhaps, it's a property exclusive to humans, and furthermore, that it doesn't manifest prior to certain stages of childhood. After all, I said, humans have been exposed to shiny objects for far longer than other primates. Maybe we've developed a tolerance for them, like Mithridates did for poison. Then Alice smiled wryly, and made a comment which went along the lines of, if you keep going that way, you'll end up making your theory unfalsifiable, and no-one will be able to prove you wrong. And then I leaned in closer, and she blushed, and I winked at her, and I said, Why, Alice, you know I'm never wrong.

Five Weeks Later

“-owner and creator of Karma Exchange, Ali-”

“-filed suit against the website's operator last month-”

“-for the girls' families stated that they were 'satisfied' with the outcome-”

“-has refused to give a statement to the press clarifying her earlier remarks-”

“-two hundred and ten thousand dollars in punitive damages-”

“-a flawed concept from the beginning, when you think about it-”

“-offender is expected to serve a minimum of fifteen years. Your thoughts on-”

“-is no different from any other social-media platform. Why Engels has been so vilified-”

“-significantly different response had it been a middle-aged woman preying on teenaged boys-”

“-completely avows herself of all responsibility for what goes on in the Exchange. It's despicable-”

“-naive of her to think that-”

“-topic of discussion is Alice-”

“-Engels has been unreachable for the past-”

“-just disappeared off the map-”

“-the facts are that without this system, these crimes could not have taken place-”

“-makes you wonder what she meant by that-”

“-said 'I think I understand you now' or something to that-”

“-criminally negligent-”

“-irresponsible-”

“-arrogant-”

“-naive-”

“-Alice Engels-”

“Come on, open the door, Alice.”

Go away.

“How long are you going to stay in there, Alice?”

Go away.

“It's been three weeks, Alice. You don't have to keep hiding.”

GO AWAY.

“Look, I'm coming in, OK?”

I don't want you to see me like this.

Click.

“Alice?”

Don't look at me.

“At least say something.”

No.

“What's this...wine, vodka, orange liqueur...vinegar? And these are all empty, too...don't tell me you drank them? All of them?”

It's been three weeks. I had time.

“Good thing I got back when I did. All that's left is the methylated spirits...please tell me you didn't.”

I was considering it.

“From the empties, I gather you've been living on instant noodles this past month or so, right?”

Beef flavour. When you cry into the cup, it still tastes the same.

“Incidentally, why are all your mirrors broken? You really did a number on the one in the bathroom.”

Our relationship was short-lived and mutually abusive.

“Geez...there's broken glass everywhere in here...”

The cuts weren't severe. It's not like I really needed that blood, anyway.

“...You don't want to talk to me, do you?”

I don't want to talk to ANYONE. Present company included.

“I don't suppose it would help if I said you didn't do anything wrong.”

There's a politely-worded letter from an expensive legal firm which says otherwise. Oh, and a hole in my bank account where $210,000 used to be.

“Look, I know how hard this has got to be for you-”

You could not possibly understand.

“-but holing yourself up in your house and drinking yourself to sleep every night isn't going to fix anything.”

What the FUCK else am I supposed to do, then?

“It's a nice afternoon. You could go to the beach.”

So I can be stoned to death by the vengeful crowds? No, thank you.

“It's not like you'd be instantly recognised by everyone. They showed your face, what, once, two times, maybe?”

The passport shot. I looked more like a criminal than the actual killer.

“You could put on a big straw hat and a pair of those impractically oversized sunglasses you have lying around somewhere.”

I'm not in the mood.

“Well, it was just a suggestion.”

Do you have a reason for being here?

“In any case, I thought it was time you ate something that didn't consist of noodles and alcohol. So I brought these.”

Clink.

I appreciate the sentiment. That being said, I...don't want to be around other people right now.

“Your house could do with some cleaning, too. The bits of broken mirror all over your bathroom floor, for a start.”

Want to know how I did it? Imagine drunken boxing. Now replace one of the guys with a mirror.

“Oh, and Zoe called.”

She did?

“From Baku, if that means anything to you. It's in Azerbaijan. I had to look it up.”

What did she say?

“She's cutting her trip short and coming home. Word of God is that her flight gets in at around noon tomorrow, our time.”

So I ruined her-

“She also told me to tell you that you didn't ruin her vacation. She said that she'd 'seen all she wanted to see' in Azerbaijan.”

I...see.

“So, you see? It's not the end of the world. She'll be home tomorrow, and we both know the first thing she'll do is come by here to see how you're doing. And then, you'll probably both get drunk, and you'll come up with your next preposterous scheme together, and forget this whole thing ever happened.”

Forget, huh...you know, I almost believe you.

“Now, do you want olives in it or not?”

Elsewhere

The windows on the third floor of the mansion were circular, and when the moonlight hit them just right, as it did now, it gave an effect similar to what you would achieve if a number of impractically large, bone-china dinner plates were set out along the carpet in a line, and then somehow flattened. Alternatively, thought the young man, you could consider it as the rest of the carpet being painted with charcoal, or soot, or tar, or pitch, or some other material with a propensity for darkness. Or, as the young man continued this line of reasoning, you could interpret it as being both at the same time, much like how that painting on the second floor-

He stopped.

The young man stood very still in the darkness at one end of the corridor. The corridor terminated at a solidly locked wooden door – his late grandfather's study, if he remembered correctly. The young man did not possess the key. To go downstairs to retrieve it under these circumstances would be foolish. Suicidal, he thought to himself.

So he stood very still at the end of the corridor, and watched, and listened.

Creak.

That was it.

The sound of floorboards straining under the weight of something human-shaped, yet as heavy as two fully-grown men. The young man frowned grimly. Six dinner plates of moonlight separated where he stood now from the corner adjoining the stairwell. If it appeared anywhere, it would be there, first and foremost.

Creak.

And there it was.

In the darkness at the opposite end of the corridor, a figure could be vaguely discerned – but only vaguely. The only clearly visible part was a pair of eyes, as blue as the summer sky, glowing dimly despite there being no light for them to reflect, hanging at roughly the same height as the young man's eyes.

The young man thought he saw a glint of moonlight, twice-reflected off a set of uncomfortably sharp teeth.

He wasn't afraid.

Fear was as alien to him as this...abomination was to what – who – it had once been.

Creak.

It stepped forward.

“Tell me, monster-”

Creak.

“-am I to take it that you are his failure?”

Creak.

“Or, perhaps, a success? In which case, his plan was truly more diabolical than I had anticipated.”

Creak.

“Whichever, it doesn't matter to me.”

Creak.

“One way or another-”

Creak.

“-your existence will end tonight.”

Now fully within the first circle of moonlight, the blue-eyed Ahriman grinned at the young man. It was barely a cruel mockery of a human expression. The intelligence animating those features was...too far gone for that to be considered. It opened its mouth in reply.

“Why, isn't that simply adorable.” it crooned, “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

“Those memories are not yours to recall.”

The face's flesh began to distort, as the phrase 'grinning from ear to ear' slowly began to become a more accurate description of its expression.

“All memories are mine, and belong to me. You should understand that better than most.” said the daemon.

The young man removed his hands from his pockets, and joined them as if in prayer. He closed his eyes, and smiled for the first time that night.

“Not anymore.”