They dared me to do it. I was afraid.

Alone in the bathroom. Lights off, candlelit, just me and my reflection. The darkness hid the worst of it, at least. It hid my bloodshot eyes, and my pale skin, and left the canvas blank for the imagination to fill.

Outside, they waited for me. I heard their whispers. They were scared, too, in their own way, but they had it easy. They were drunker than me, higher than me, and more comfortable in their belief in the metaphysical than I could ever hope to be. And what about me? I trembled with frustration. The shield of reason had long chipped, and I had allowed hope to spark, and I knew it, even back then I knew that I was setting myself up for a fall. Because what else could happen? I was going to look at this unlit caricature of my face for minutes on end, and my brain was going to strain to add features to the featureless, and eventually, once it was exhausted, my face in the mirror would melt, or twitch, or spin, or shift and fracture in ways only the unseen can. That’s when Bloody Mary comes to meet your gaze.

Bloody Mary, two crossed wires in the brain.

Bloody Mary, a misfire of my facial recognition systems.

An effect. A phenomenon. Self-hypnosis, apophenia, Troxler’s fading, pareidolia.

Bloody Mary, a bunch of bullshit.

If I knew this all to be true, why was my heart buzzing in my chest? Why were my hands cold? Presented with a legend made to scare children half my age, I froze. I could refute the whole stupid legend with a word, and all the same, it petrified me.

But that wasn't really what it was about, was it?

It was about me, the girl in the bathroom at the party she had been invited to out of pity, forced to stare at her reflection in the dark and think, mull, chew, and spit out.

I followed the ritual to the letter. I had even called her name, even though I knew it wouldn't do anything. Once, twice. Thrice. Bloody Mary. So embarrassing! The minutes crawled. An uneasy boredom had set in, one that I had to suppress, a need for another drink, another puff, not even because I needed them, just for something to do.

And still, the figure stared back at me. Her face was still mine; her movements, too.

The party outside languished. The music played on, unchallenged by chatter or the clinking of glasses. Third loop, soon fourth.

Just me in the mirror. Always just me. As their tonic-and-lime fuel ran out, my friends grew agitated. The thirty minute mark approached, and I was alone.

The girl in the mirror scared me. She had no bleeding eyes, no broken neck. Her features didn't melt or rot before me, they just looked sad, and bored, and lonely. I was her; alone with her skepticism, with her fear, with her shame--her, staring at nothing, staring at myself, staring on.

The ritual had summoned something; something I feared more than any ghost. Sobriety. Clarity of thought. Awareness.

There's nowhere worse to be than alone with yourself.