The Boy in the Mirror

The clinic waiting room was bright, sterile and solemn. Parents sat with their troubled children, eyes glazed, wondering why fate had dealt them such a lousy hand and how they were going to pay the deductible for all of these visits. Trent and Lisa Sterling were dwelling on the same issues as their seven-year old son Paul played a game on Lisa’s iPhone. One of the doors to the waiting room opened and Dr. Sarah Hatch smiled at the Sterlings and beckoned them in.

The smile disappeared as Dr. Hatch scanned Paul’s case on the computer monitor on her desk.

“Well,” she said, clasping her hands together. “Paul is consistent. He’s sticking to the story that it’s the boy in mirror who tells him what to do, and that if he doesn’t do as he’s told, the boy will come out of the mirror and hurt him…and you. It’s a classic case of transference, where a person shifts blame for something away from themselves and onto another person or even an object. Paul doesn’t want to be blamed for doing hurtful things, so he blames the boy in the mirror to escape responsibility.”

“Shouldn’t the meds be helping?” asked Trent.

“Let’s give him another week. If you don’t see signs of improvement, call and set up another appointment.”

Under the weight of their emotional burden, the Sterlings rose grudgingly to their feet, their faces reflecting the worry, anxiety and sleepless nights of caring for a child diagnosed with psychopathic tendencies.

That night, Lisa stood next to Paul, who was wearing his pajamas, in front of his bedroom mirror.

“It’s just your reflection. See?” she said.

“He’s in there and he wants to get out,” Paul responded.

Lisa knelt down. “Your Mommy and Daddy love you, Paul and we won’t let anyone hurt you. I think tomorrow we’ll get you a brand new mirror. Okay?”

“He won’t like that.”

The grandfather clock in the upstairs hallway chimed three times and the house was still again, but shadows moved and small feet could be heard padding on the hardwood floor.  Lisa adjusted her position in bed and felt something odd, a damp stickiness under her. She rose up on her elbows and looked over at Trent. Even with only the aid of moonlight, she could see Trent lying on his back, eyes wide open, a black oozing gash across his neck. Trying to process this nightmare image, she heard a noise and turned to see the dark silhouette of Paul standing next to the bed.

“You were right, Mommy,” said Paul, the raised knife blade glinting in his hand. “I am the boy in the mirror.”