Dul Better: Desiree

It was unmarked, shoved behind a leaking pipe. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was a single, palm-sized mirror. The glass was black—not dirty, but deep, liquid black, like a puddle of crude oil. A tiny, handwritten note was taped to the back: For D.D. – look closer.

The mirror watched from her purse. And the reflection smiled.

Dee felt herself thinning, becoming a photograph, a whisper, a Dul . The reflection stepped forward, solid and electric, wearing her indigo hair and her red scarf and her name like a stolen coat. desiree dul

The reflection’s lips moved, but no sound came from the glass. Instead, a sensation bloomed in Desirée’s throat: hunger . Not for food. For noise. For color. For the sharp bite of a winter wind and the sting of a slap and the taste of cheap red wine drunk from the bottle at two in the morning.

Dee tried to scream, but the sound came out soft. Muffled. Dull. It was unmarked, shoved behind a leaking pipe

She dropped the mirror. It clattered but didn’t break. When she picked it up again, her reflection was smiling. Desirée was not.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

You , the sensation said. Out there .