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Mirrors Written by Arian Mabe / Amethyst Mare

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Some would call me crazy, to turn a mirror to face the wall. Ears back, mane messy - a mare must look a right sight without a mirror, but there is no one here to bear judgement, so what do I care? Perhaps I care a little, though the benefit of lacking mirrors outweighs any cons, in my opinion. I'll pace my bedroom (the biggest in the house - what luck) from wall to wall, turning about on a hoof when I reach the limit. The curtains are closed and the only reflective surface is that of the television, but that is so old and weary that a blurry reflection may be acceptable in this instance or not. The laptop does not reflect as the screen is flipped up, open to iTunes and music playing, just to forget that it is quiet and deep in the dead of night.

The bedroom is perfect and I cannot help smiling as I perch on the edge of the bed, light enough that I feel as if I could spring up again to pace at a mere moment's notice or less. There is no problem with my bedroom - it's the remainder of the house that I wish I could change, the parts that I have to ghost through upon occasion. The bathroom is the most frequented and consequently my least favourite. If I could, I would remove the bathroom mirrors - both the one in the little toilet room and the bigger, grotesque one spanning the stretch of wall opposite the shower in the main bathroom. I'm happier ignoring the truth. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

Or so they say.

I'll keep my head down as I visit the kitchen, alternately ricocheting between overstocked and under-stocked depending on mood and how busy I am, or at least that's what I tell myself. Whether or not I believe it is another question entirely and one we shall not delve into right now. Opening the fridge makes me wrinkle my nose - why can't my housemate throw out the vegetables that he pretends to eat yet never does? - and mutter under my breath at the lack of space for my items. It's not as if I need to eat after all, of course not. The fridge and one freezer are placed opposite the window and I count it a blessing that I am able to keep my back to it while it is dark outside, going about my business as swiftly as an equine is able at the best of times. It's too much of a shame to lower the blinds in the kitchen, even with my reflection aversion: I like to look at the lambs in the daytime.

If only the day could last forever - it would help so much. Just a few more hours? It is the darkness that is the problem. You never know what will be looking back at you from the glass. And, trust me, I would much rather not find out, even if that leaves me, ironically, in the dark.

But, by far, it's the living room windows that I loathe. And that time has come again.

Every day, I must close the curtains. Now, this window is spectacular in daytime. Having it there is like having a portal to the outside world, one that I may step through, or not, as it pleases me, or not. It's a set of double, glass doors - patio doors - and opens out on to the garden, framed and only marred by age and dirty, yellow floor length curtains. I've observed the change of seasons through this window, the neighbourhood cat snuffing out a mouse, the farm hands rounding up the sheep for shearing and, to name my favourite, baby birds flitting from hedge to hedge as they learn to fly. One day, I will remember to close the curtains when daylight still prevails though night steals upon me like a cloaked visitor knocking upon one's door, as unwelcome and unwholesome as a sewer rat.

To get to this window, I must walk across the entire stretch of the living room, which is sadly bare of anything bar the decrepit sofa and hamster that spins upon his wheel like a mad thing at the most ungodly hour. It is a long walk to that window and I do it as quickly as possible, hooves snapping out and tail whipping against my legs as I try to do it without breaking into a trot. That would be ridiculous.

I have to watch myself walk up to the window, a chestnut blur that rapidly becomes clearer with every step, backlit from the hallway light. Close and closer, I have to go right up to the window, take in every little detail and images flickering beyond the glass. It's windy and the breeze tosses leaves against the reflective surface, making it appear as if I am caught in a russet whirlwind. But that would be dramatising, of course.

My reflection stares blankly and flicks her tail. Will she smile this time? Is she still there?

I close the curtains from both sides simultaneously with a shudder, fooling myself that it is due to the cold. Winter is coming, after all, and there will be snow layering the ground within the following weeks, I am sure. The deed done, I retreat at a pace to the brightly lit hallway, breathing a sigh of relief that does nothing to relieve the pent up pressure within my chest, a pain that never truly vanishes. It is done. Until tomorrow evening.

It is not that I am afraid of what is on the other side of the glass, just myself. How strange, you say, to be afraid of yourself. It is not as if you have done anything bad, no murders or terrible deceit on this record, if that is what you class as something to be feared. Indeed, I can be quite terrifying with a knife in my paw, but I have never - and will never - raised a blade to another. When a night is particularly bad and I cannot escape, I have had the misfortune to look in a mirror and find that I am dead behind the eyes. My body is still physically present and I am confident my brain is still sat between my ears, but that bit that makes me who I am, life, is gone. Dull and blank, I appear as if one dead and I fear that, one day, I will not wake up again from this no-life state that has, thus far, remained confined to temporary instances.

It's unnerving to be emotionally numb, having disappeared from yourself for a while. Maybe it's invincible, in a way, as who can hurt you when you've already hurt yourself more than any other can do in your lifetime? But feeling as if my limbs are too heavy to relieve physical numbness, my brain to slow to read , write, watch television, play a game or work on whatever is I am supposed to be doing makes me fight. It is true that I have survived every low episode so far and I will fight tooth and claw to continue doing just that, until there are none whatsoever remaining: just me and me alive.

What really scares me, however, is that this cruel, little part of me likes it. And never again do I want to return to that dark place. That little part of me can do a running jump and never, ever come back.

That was then and this is now. Time is never and always linear, so you will have to judge for yourself what is happening now. All I will impart is that life moves on and time does indeed change, day by day, but I'll let you in on a little secret of mine.

I still hate mirrors.