Azrail first noticed the change one morning while brushing his teeth. The reflection in the mirror looked just like him, but a little… off. His eyes seemed a shade darker, his smile a bit too sharp. Brushing it off as a trick of the light, he went on with his day.
Over the next few weeks, these unsettling reflections became more frequent. Sometimes, he’d catch his reflection moving a second too late, or even smirking when he wasn’t. Mentioning it to friends and family led to nothing but laughs or worried glances. “It’s probably just stress,” they’d say. “You need some sleep.” He began to doubt himself, to wonder if he was going mad.
Seeking solace, Azrail turned to prayer, immersing himself in his faith. But with each prayer, the reflection grew bolder, appearing in mirrors, windows, even polished surfaces, mocking him, its twisted grin stretching across his face. He’d read somewhere that demons could possess reflections, and the thought gnawed at him. Could a demon really be trapped inside him?
The harder he prayed, the worse his body felt. A burning ache settled into his bones, his skin became drawn and pale, and strange bruises and scratches appeared overnight. He thought he was fighting something unholy, but it felt as if his faith was fueling it. Every prayer intensified his pain until he could barely stand. His hands shook, and his nights were tormented by feverish dreams, his reflection sneering at him, taunting him.
He began losing control of himself in small but frightening ways. He lashed out at people he loved, his patience snapped in moments, and a dark, simmering anger brewed inside him. Azrail felt trapped, abandoned, his prayers seeming to echo into a void.
Finally, in a moment of despair, he collapsed before his mirror, his voice hoarse and trembling. “Why, God? Why would You leave me like this?” he cried. His heart ached with anger, a bitter sense of betrayal washing over him. As the words left his lips, the mirror was suddenly still. His reflection stared back at him, quiet and blank. For the first time in weeks, the demon seemed to be gone.
Relieved, he staggered to bed, feeling a hollow emptiness in the place where his faith had once been. But that night, as he drifted into sleep, a shadow lingered in his peripheral vision—a darkness in his eyes, a faint echo of a smile. Azrail had lost his faith, and in doing so, had given the demon a place to burrow, deeper and more comfortably, within his soul.