The doctors were nice. Warm and friendly. Accommodating and willing - wanting, even - to help. One, in particular, tried to ensure every day that Alice was content. She wouldn't be well for some time. Even with the medication, which did an excellent job in evening out her moods and calming her outbursts, it could be a number of years before she would be able to function on her own.

The prognosis was not good. Dr. Edwards was entirely certain where Alice's issues stemmed from. Her parents' idea of care was unusual - just thinking about both twins being named the same made him shudder. And it was plain which sister was the favourite. He'd decided not to mention this to his patient. He didn't want her to become unnecessarily agitated and was sure she already knew.

Edwards had yet to see such a defined, virulent delusion as had taken over his patient. Mirrors had become doorways into other worlds. If Alice saw herself in one, she became aggressive. If she knew a mirror was hanging on a wall, she was fearful of going near lest the shadows would attack her. Alice always attacked first. Her hands and arms were a mass of badly healed cuts making her look as if she self-harmed. She didn't. She didn't need to. Her delusions were quite adept at doing her harm.

A private toilet cubicle had to be set aside for her. One with no metal or reflective surfaces. Her room was changed three times. Twice because of objects or fittings which were either too glossy or a certain angle of sunlight caused to give her a flash of herself. The third was after an incident one night.

It was a Thursday. Dr. Edwards liked Thursdays. There was always an upbeat vibe rippling through the asylum. Friday was the day most patients received visitors so anticipation bubbled like a volcano awaiting the nod to erupt in shiny, happy glee. Thursday lunch was followed by chocolate concrete with pink custard, a firm favourite among the residents and staff alike. And Thursday night was film night. Disney, 80s film classics and inoffensive comedies were shown in the recreation room, projected onto the large, smooth wall on the Eastern side. Because the wall became a cinema screen once a week, it was completely devoid of graffiti or damage. If any smudges of finger or palm prints were found, the patients were eager to wipe them away, though spit wasn't always the most appropriate cleaning fluid. Nor were any other the more imaginative ones.

The movie on this occasion was a harmless family film. It was going to be exciting with dashing heroes and a wicked stepmother. If Dr. Edwards had been involved in the choice of entertainment, things might have been different. Unfortunately, it wasn't his domain. He was a psychiatrist. He had no part to play in general administration, food or activities. Oh, he joined in the games and watched the films, but the choices were out of his hands. After the Thursday in question, that changed. He ensured he was aware of anything which might affect his patients, even if it seemed insignificant.

When Dr. Edwards took his seat and the film started, he didn't make any connections to begin with. Once the audience and he was engrossed in the story, something tickled the back of his mind. Unconsciously, he scratched his neck, but the tickle remained. What was it? What was bothering him?

Then he realised. The magic mirror. Surely it would be fine, wouldn't it? It was on the big wall-cum-screen. It wasn't real and she wouldn't be able to see herself in it. She would understand this. No reflection and no non-existent creatures. Still, he looked around to find her.

Alice was nowhere to be seen.

He sighed, relieved. She'd decided not to attend tonight. That was a lucky escape! He returned his attention to the film. As big a child as he was determined to stay, he enjoyed such movies, no matter how many times he saw them. Within moments he was lost in the story. Even when the magic mirror began to tell the wicked queen she wasn't the fairest of them all, the hairs on the back of Dr. Edwards neck remained settled in their relaxed position, letting him enjoy the revisiting of his childhood. When the relative quiet of the room was injected with the sharp sound of pain, he initially thought it was a part of the film. The audio occasionally had a little fun and bounced around the room, giving the illusion of surround sound when, in reality, it was simply bad acoustics. It wasn't until the first punch was thrown and caught on the side of Ellen McGonagle's jaw that the movie's hold on Edwards was lost and his attention was brought back to the world of patients and paranoia.

Ellen McGonagle was not the sort of person to hold a grudge. If someone were to step on her toe, for example, she'd brush it off as if it were lint on her shoulder. Small and insignificant and easily ignored. As long as the stepee apologised. Courtesy was paramount to the elderly woman who had spent the past thirty years in institutions and had, by default, found her way into Dr. Edwards' care. She was quiet and unobtrusive. She was kindly and polite. And, if you'd left your courtesy at the door along with your shoes and coat, she was a savage siren whose scream would burst your eardrums while her thumbs were doing their best to burst your eyeballs.

Afterwards, Edwards apologised on behalf of Alice. Once the girl was sedated and assured the mirror really was just somebody's imagination and not real, he insisted the restraints were removed from Ellen and she be allowed to return to her room. With a sincere 'sorry' and a lovely cup of green tea.

For Alice, things were not so simple. No matter how many times the doctor told her the mirror mirror on the wall was a CGI concoction, she knew he was lying. He couldn't help it. He was being nice. He was just trying to placate her. It wouldn't work. It couldn't. She'd seen them. She'd seen the eyes. And the teeth, curved into a wicked smile. Alice wasn't stupid and nor was she naive. It was a film. She could tell the difference between reality and imagination. But mirrors were mirrors and, actual or artificial, they hid the beasts.

Sometimes, Alice thought her twin had unleashed them. It was her image Alice saw in the glass, not her own. Blonde rather than black hair. Confident instead of coy. And around the reflection's shoulders, like a warm wrap in the chill of a winter's day, slid the creatures. They'd snuggle down, nuzzling into her neck. Alice2 would ignore them, of course. If you made eye contact with one, you could be sure it would bite off your nose in a heartbeat before dining on your throat. Alice2 knew that. Alice2 was clever. She would realise her nose was one of her best features. It sloped perfectly between her glorious eyes and overhung her full lipped mouth. Alice2 had something about her. She released the creatures for her younger sister. To scare her. To, perhaps, feast on her.

It would remove the competition, not that Alice could ever compete with her flawless sibling. It would leave their parents' affection with no need to be forcibly split between the two girls. Of course, the split was uneven anyway, and was little more than a casual acknowledgement of existence. In the asylum, Alice's parents couldn't hear her scream. She was out of sight and had been out of mind for most of her life.

As Alice slept the sedation off, nicely wrapped up in her 'accessorised coat', Dr. Edwards read through her file, wishing he could come up with something to help her. He was unsure how forthcoming the girl's mother and father had been with the truth about their daughter's condition. He could see the lack of care as if it was standing next to them. A shadowy third child, one which embodied their dislike of the second, supposedly inferior twin. One which sucked the love from the parents and used it as a knife to cut away at her psyche, whittling her down until she was a shadow herself.

When he had finished going through her history, he laid the file down, sliding it so it was square with the lines and edges of his desk. Even the sanest person in an asylum was allowed to suffer from a little OCD. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, sighing. There was only one real course of action. If you needed to get over a fear of heights, you had to stand on the highest bridge you could find. To overcome a phobia of spiders, you allowed a tarantula to run up your arm, hoping it wouldn't bite you. Your skin would crawl and you heart would race, but you would beat that fear with a great big, extremely thick stick. You may wish it was the spider you were using the stick on, but you'd have conquered your terror.

A fear of mirrors, surely, must be defeated in a similar fashion.

Dr. Edwards sat up straight and tapped his keyboard, causing his computer screen to light up. He winced at the sudden illumination, then moved and clicked his mouse. Once the search engine was loaded, he leaned back again and pulled the wireless keyboard to his lap, typing quickly.

The easiest solutions were often the most obvious. He would buy a mirror. The largest, most ornate one he could find - and afford.

He'd put Alice in a room with the mirror, but shackle her so she couldn't break it.

And he'd leave her like that until she was cured.

Dr. Edwards prided himself on his care for his patients. He smiled when he managed to come up with a plan which would help them and enable them to lead 'normal' lives.

He was smiling broadly.