[39] Broken Mirrors, Paul C. Rosenblatt

Your honor, I confess that I broke all six mirrors in that hotel room, but it was self-defense.  I asked the hotel clerks to give me a room without mirrors, but they didn’t.  There were mirrors on the two closet doors, the bathroom door, the medicine chest, above the head of the bed, and above the dresser.  I tried covering the mirrors with towels and sheets, but the mirrors were too well defended, so no covering stayed put.  Everywhere I looked there were mirrors, attacking my well-being and my very life. 

In every mirror I saw an old, old man, one whose worn, blotchy, lumpy, wrinkled face, whose sparse gray hair, and whose bony, sagging body meant that he didn’t have years to live but only weeks or days.  The mirrors were united in pushing me to give up living, to get on with dying right then and there.  So you see, your honor, the mirrors were draining the life force from me.  They were trying to murder me.  I had to act.  So I broke them.  Your honor, it was self defense.

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