Monster in the Mirror

A story about our demons. Please heed the trigger warning; if you are not mentally prepared to read about self-harm and violence, I would advise you to skip this piece.

[TW: self-harm, violence]

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“Get it off.”

My left cheek is covered in small in-grown hairs, alien intrusions that don’t belong. Thick and defiant, they sprout like weeds in fertile soil, begging to be plucked.

“Get it off,” implores the imp perched on my left shoulder.

I lean over the sink counter, using the bathroom mirror to examine the state of affairs. The hostile terrain is infested by an invasive species. From a distance, these hairs superfluous are hardly noticeable, almost invisible. But up close, under this unforgiving light, they are clear as day and hideous as—

“GET IT OFF!” the imp screeches.

With tweezer in my dominant right hand, I use my left to hold my cheek in place and find our first target. Weed #1 is particularly long and thick. Starting off easy.

Shlup. The first hair comes out with a satisfying pop.

The imp, temporarily satisfied, quietly purrs, “get it offfff.”

The next half dozen weeds, carefully selected among the ripe and ready, extract cooperatively. Schlup, shlup, shlup.

“Get it offff,” the imp murmurs.

Weed #9 presents the first challenge. This one is thinner, fragile. Tss, tss, tss. It refuses to come on the first few pulls.

“Get it off?” the imp inquires.

Readjusting to grab the base of the weed helps. It comes out after another tango. Sch. Quieter this time, but more damage. The area around it glows orange, slightly inflamed.

“Get it offf.” The imp approves.

I stare into the mirror. In it, I see stars. I see faraway galaxies clashing with nebulae. I see the faces of past generations, weaving in and out, pulsating. I see the Big Bang. I close my eyes and count to seven. One, two, three, four… seven. When the dust settles, all which remains is a war-torn wasteland with further weeds to be eradicated.

The difficulty gradually increases as we continue down this rabbit hole. By Weed #15, none of the hairs come out on the first pull. They require finesse; they cause ruin.

“Get it off!” encourages the imp.

And so we continue.

By Weed #33, each hair became a new puzzle. Some were fine and wispy, others deceptively angled, roots hidden beneath layers of resistance. Simple adjustments were no longer enough — each extraction demanded ingenuity, a precise choreography of pulls and shifts and desperate improvisations. Yet, every victory left carnage: a minefield of swollen welts, blooming in hues of sickly blue, yellow, and purple.

“Get it off.”

Weed #57 lay buried deep under my skin, its threadlike outline barely visible through the translucent veil of skin. There is nothing to grip, only the faint suggestion of its existence. The most daunting test.

“Get it… OFF?” suggests the imp.

Following its advice, I re-angle the tweezer. I use it to fervently scratch away at Weed #57, as if my cheek were a lotto ticket, the jackpot an extracted hair. The win condition for this lottery is an access point, breaking through the skin.

“Get it off…”

The surrounding area shimmered with hues of bruised lavender and raw pink, oozing faintly with each touch. Scratch, scratch. Dig, dig, dig. The minutes dragged on, each movement fruitless. Frustration mounting, I set the tweezer down with trembling hands.

“Get it offff!” hisses the imp.

How long has it been? We have raged war against weeds for eons. Fatigue is seeping in. In a bid to appease the imp, I pick up the tweezer once more.

“Gettt it off,” it murmurs approvingly.

I keep scratching, each stroke more frantic than the last. #57 continues to ooze, leaking streaks of green and vermillion. I keep scratching. Finally, the light at the end of the tunnel: the tweezer pierces the flesh barrier. The skin gives way with a sickening pop, and a slick warmth drips down my fingers. At this point, the rest of the extraction goes smoothly, though not cleanly — each pull drags fresh ruin across the surrounding tissue. The area around #57, puckered and torn, reflects the aftermath of a vicious clash, a grotesque testament to the violence of its release.

The imp jumps up and down in joy. “Get itttt off!” it exclaims.

The next dozen are challenging, but not nearly as much as #57. Once the left cheek appears clear of weed-related threats, I put the tweezer away.

“GET it OFF!?” the imp asks.

“There’s no more — the fight is over.” I run my left hand across the cheek to feel for any stragglers. It’s smooth.

“Get IT OFF!?” it repeats.

Exhausted and exasperated, I respond: “Get what off? Show me what more I can do.”

Silence. Then, chaos.

“GET!!” The imp begins to transform.

“IT!!!” It morphs and grows on my shoulder.

“OFFFF!!” Sinister-looking appendages appear on its body.

No longer impish but something darker, more demonic, the creature slithers up my neck, its spindly claws dragging over my skin like dull razors. I freeze as its wiry limbs coil tightly around my chest, locking me in its suffocating grip. Its putrid, burning breath hisses against my ear. My arms flail instinctively, grasping at its sinewy form, but the harder I claw, the tighter it constricts. It's not just choking me; it's pressing into my thoughts, rooting itself where it doesn’t belong. I have to get it off — no, out — before it takes something I can never reclaim.

“GET IT OFFF!” it growls ferociously.

The imp, a boiling mass of fury and malice, lunges for the tweezer with claws that twitch in murderous anticipation. Terrified of its intentions, I dive for the tweezer as well. I win this race by a fraction of a second.

“GETTTT!”

With the tweezer in my grip, it is no longer a tool and more of a lifeline: a weapon to combat this monstrous force. The imp snarls, tightening its grip. But I have a fighting chance to survive. I lash out and swing wildly, the barely-sharp edge catching its shadowy form. A scream pierces the air — mine or its, I am unsure. The imp retaliates, its claws sinking deeper, choking my resolve. I strike again, harder this time, each blow driven by the raw, animalistic will to survive.

“GET!”

I strike again.

“IT!”

And again.

“OFFF!”

And again.

“Get it…. off….”

Triumph. In its dying breaths, I ask the imp once again: “Get what off? Get off your fucking self. You’re finished. I’m free of your curse.”

“Get… it off..…”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought. You’re nothing but a damn leech.”

Silence. Then, clarity.

“Get it… off…. Your… self-perceptions…” Deep breath. “Wanted… to help…. you feel better about… yourself…”

My eyes widen. Before I could react, a rap on the door. Knock, knock. It’s my housemate.

“You okay, bruh?” He peers in from the hallway. “I ain’t tryna interrupt, but… you been in here a while. And you ain’t fully close the door.”

I rinse away the pool of red in the sink. “I was just— never mind. All good. I’ll be done in a sec.”

In the mirror, an imp watches, perched on the shoulder of my reflection.

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Afterword

Aug 2020. My first acid trip was, at times, a bad trip (a “challenging trip,” as it’s known in the therapeutic context).

In particular, it made me hate myself. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw my face change and warp in myriad rainbow tinges. At the time, I had extremely low self-esteem. I found my face ugly as is, and the trippy distortions certainly didn’t help. Thus, I saw a monster in the mirror that disgusted me to my core.

Set matters. If I had inner confidence like I do today, I may have found a totally different experience. Perhaps I would have seen beauty in the colors and distortion of my face. Faces of past selves, past generations. But what could have been eye-opening and thought-provoking became nightmarish and ghoul-like.

Negative self-perception was a “demon.” I had many such demons. One lesson I learned that day was that, rather than trying to fight my demons, I had a lot to learn from them. By understanding and befriending the demons, I could address the underlying issues — otherwise, the demons would eventually come back, without fail. Taking an aggressive approach fails to address what lies beneath.

After that so-called challenging trip, I began my journey towards healing and self-acceptance. A bad trip, perhaps. But not such a bad outcome.

Tl;dr: Don’t try to fight your demons. Understand and befriend them; they exist for a reason.