My Mirror
By atfirstdawn

*Mature content warning for bondage themes, I guess…
*© Keira Morrison/ atfirstdawn 2012-13


I love my mirror, I love staring back at my body when I’m alone. I love counting my scars and I love watching my blood run down my neck, limbs and torso. Sometimes I don’t use my mirror for months on end and just let it gather dust in the corner of the room, but sometimes I can use it night after night for weeks on end like a ritual; it just depends on how I’m feeling. Nights like tonight can be the best; having not used it for so long and to go back to it and see my body as a whole and see how much has changed and to see how happy I am. It’s a rush to see the latex ball in my mouth as clearly as I can feel it, as well as it can be hypnotic to hold on to the mirror’s frame with my hands and have my head resting against its cold surface and watch both my own body and its reflection as my blood trickles down an extremity and eventually dries on my skin without dripping on to the floor beneath me.

For years my mirror was my best friend, it used to belong to my aunt and used to be hung in her lounge between numerous decorative plates depicting horses and dogs and cats. I’m not entirely sure how I ended up with it, I think it was just one of those necessary items that came with the basic living package that my aunt put together for me after I was disowned by my mother, kicked out and forced to find another place to live. I can still remember the first few nights I spent on my own, unpacking the boxes and sorting their contents into numerous rooms throughout my new home, and I can still remember how lonely I felt. The last night of unpacking was the first night that I used the mirror; I can still remember the episode of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit that was playing on TV and I can also remember how cold it was that night too because I hadn’t figured out how to work the heating… I remember the glass of the mirror feeling colder than the air that was creeping in from outside through the useless and half rotten wooden window-frame as I picked up and took it to the room that I’d claimed as my bedroom.

The room that served as my bedroom back then had a small alcove in it next to a cupboard full of what I’m assuming are gas meters and water pipes. I looked once but quickly shut the door and never opened it again because of the crazy amount of thick spider-webs and dust and dirt. There was enough room for both myself and my mirror in the alcove and it felt fitting at the time for me to be kneeling in a faraway and forgotten corner of the house. I hadn’t touched my backpack since dropping it on the floor of my new bedroom with three other carrier bags days earlier; in my backpack were my tools for self-bondage; silk scarves, plastic washing line, handcuffs, bandannas and numerous rolls of coloured tape. It was a non-threatening and vanilla collection, the harmless tools of the trade that one acquires throughout their youth when they have a fetish… the backpack itself had become the primary home for all of my like for like bondage equipment, it was safer than storing them in drawers or under the bed when it was always a possibility that my mother would randomly search my room. The backpack had been my first go-to item when I was given a limited amount of time to get my stuff and get gone; I knew that the contents of my backpack would make me happy wherever I went and through whatever would happen to me, I couldn’t be without it and I had made damn sure that I wasn’t.

I remember that opening my backpack made me teary-eyed. This would be the first time that I was going to tie myself up in a place that I didn’t consider home. The sense of loneliness increased as I pulled out the scarves and handcuffs that had tangled together. The sound of the muffled metal in the mess of silk hitting the wooden floor was a noise so unflattering and ugly that it felt like a punch to the gut… After emptying the bag completely and detangling its contents I remember ripping off my shirt and feeling more angry than upset, even though my vision had become clouded with stinging glassy bulges. Thinking back on it, I don’t know why I set the mirror up in front of me, I had never looked at myself in a reflection while bound before, it just felt like the right thing to do at the time, perhaps it was company or perhaps I was just lost and out of my mind… I felt as if I wanted everything done yesterday and couldn’t bind myself fast enough; there was no savouring the motions or enjoyment in the process; stuffing the black, unwashed bandana that I had never worn around my head but had had in my mouth plenty of times before felt like a punishment as I changed my breathing to compensate for my newly blocked airway and my burning sinuses. Tightening a red silk scarf around my head finally made my eyes let go of their tears and before I knew it I was holding on to the frame of the mirror in front of me with my sweating forehead pressed against its cold surface, the entire house was still freezing but my emotional and physical state had sent my body into burning spasms that I remember being uncomfortable. I don’t know how long it took me for me to come to my senses, I don’t know how long I knelt there crying against the mirror with a bandanna in my mouth feeling ugly, dirty and pointless. All I wanted to do was either lose myself, not exist or live in a world where only I existed.

After what must have been hours later, I remember picking up the tape beside me and using it on my already bound mouth, a pair of black handcuffs followed soon after, cuffing my wrists in front of me wasn’t something I wanted to do but I couldn’t be sure where the key was or if I’d put them on the right way up, I wasn’t thinking straight and knew I’d make more work for myself if I were to cuff my hands behind me. Sitting in front of the mirror with my back against the now warm wall, I stared at my reflection while I felt the familiar feelings of comfort, safety, security and something that made me feel complete rise within me as if nothing had changed, as if I were still at home, in a place I knew and felt like myself in. Time and time again I’d look at my reflection in the mirror unsure of what to make of myself, I knew that my pitiful sight would come across as looking pathetic to most people, and perhaps even to those who knew me. It’s easy to remember what I wanted that night, I wanted a friend, companionship and someone to tie me tighter and make me feel alive. I wanted to be completely helpless and be able to use all of my strength against my bonds and not need to be careful of how hard I strained or how loud or long I screamed. Again, hours that could have been minutes passed me by and every time I looked back to my reflection it seemed to have changed. Even though I didn’t feel any different, I still felt as distraught as I had been earlier, my reflection showed me the opposite, and when I looked at my mirror I felt a comfort, my reflection seemed to be looking better than I felt and the sight of it made my heart feel lighter.

Days later after hard mornings and afternoons of putting the house together, tidying things up and sorting out my own salvaged wares I repeated the process in front of the mirror, night by night over a period of weeks I began to feel better and each following day was blessed with a productivity that rarely comes my way. Lists were made as to what needed to be replaced and fixed around the house; I worked out how to use the heating and bought fresh bed sheets and miscellaneous items to make my new home more liveable and welcoming. My days were warm even though I spent them alone, save for the day where once every week I’d take the train down to visit my aunt, but my nights were warmer.

In the years to follow I’d secure a job, meet some friends, buy better and more exciting bondage equipment and meet my American girlfriend, Morgan at a house party.

Meeting Morgan usurped the need for me to use my mirror, aside from the times where she would fly off to America to spend time with her family for Thanksgiving, and in those instances, were I to feel down or lonely, my mirror would always be an option to me.

On recent nights, like tonight, when we are together and she has had her way with me at my behest and torn my skin and made me bleed, and when she has left me half bound on the floor to untie myself while she grabs a shower to freshen up, I crawl over to my mirror, kneel in front of it and see the same teary eyed girl from years before staring back at me, only now she is smiling as best she can with a two-inch ball gag in her mouth while she watches her blood race down her body.