” I am tellin’ you, I’m right handed and I ALWAYS place the brush on my right. In the morning, I find the brush on the left side of the vanity and that is not all-”
“The confused brush can easily be explained”
“No one is allowed in my ensuite!”
“Dolores our session is almost over. Before I see you again I want you to continue your nightly routine but when you finish brushing your hair I want you to take the brush out of the room. Will you do that? Let’s build a bridge over your bathroom superstitions and focus on the root of your problems.”
“I’ll try, Doctor.”
That night in her ensuite standing in front of the sparse bathroom’s mirror, Dolores into her hundred-stroke brush routine is abruptly interrupted by a cadaverous hand manhandling the brush out of her grip and returning to its side. She instinctively reaches out to get her belonging. She is blocked by the sentry mirror. Standing motionless, mouth agape, brain lagging, she watches her reflection continue the count brush with its left hand.
It was her wearing the same cotton nightgown peeking out of a pink velvety Mother’s Day robe. She tilts her head left then right to view every angle of the mirrored doppelganger. It was her mien but distorted, instead of soft brown eyes it had pin pupils bulging eyes as on acid, combing strangled hair instead of her honey combed swirls. Unlike her bird of prey features, the furrow lines, cross knitted eyebrows slanting downwards gave her the impression of a predator bird. Complete with an intense fearlessness that she had never known.
Her amazement and dismay slowly usurped by vice gripped gut crunching horror when the brush turned into a razor-edged chef’s knife on the count of one hundred. Grinning her anti-self-slits its throat from ear to ear.
With nervous slender fingers, she cradles her stomach her other hand shakily opens the vanity drawer and takes out her diazepam (Valium). She takes too many but this was not normal- her brush was gone.
One Week Later
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