We didn't know what was thickening the water and mutating our echoes, but eventually it began to prey upon us, individually. There was a slick giddiness about the surface of the water: smooth, sleek, like the most perfectly silvered antique mirror or polished obsidian. The water reflected back not who we were, but the seductive quality of who we wanted to be, who we believed ourselves capable of becoming in the deepest pockets of our souls. Staring, gazing deeply into the eyes of the not-us, of the us as we could be, it was but a gasp, a hesitation, to reaching out a hand to touch this ideal, other self. And then, then, in the moment of reaching when a hand just brushed the surface of the water, with a gloppy whoosh the surface broke, releasing the mirror image hand.
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