Mom’s heading back out again. She’s heading to Uptown Central to look for medical supplies. Food, if she can help it. She refused to take my spare coat, saying that I’d need it more than her.

I’m hoping she’s gone for no more than a week. Honestly, a year ago, I would have loved to have the house all to myself, but now? It’s more worrying than anything else out there. Even the radioactive spotted frogs living all throughout this heck.

I just wish that Mom would have let us stay in Arizona. It was better than Alaska. Was, being the key word. After the powerplant blew up in Eastern Canada, many different things happened: each worse than the last.

First, radioactive waste leaked into the river, then evaporated, going up into the clouds. From there, it rained down over all the world, releasing those radioactive particles into other river systems. At first, nothing happened. But then the government started noticing that the frogs were bigger and had huge lumps on their backs.

Secondly, those lumps actually contained a virus of sorts. Whenever the frogs died, those lumps would basically explode, sending that virus into the air. It only seemed to affect humans, causing a very slow and painful death. Worst part was, the people didn’t even know they were infected until a week in. By then, it had already been caught by everyone else they lived with.

Of course, all of that happened within the span of a few months.

Thirdly, the snowstorm. If the frogs all would have just decided to stop existing, then the virus that they carried would have never come into contact with a certain private jet. The jet was part of a military program designated to haul over troops for training. They would be training near a volcano. Unfortunately, the pilot had an unexpected seizure while flying, sending the aircraft directly into the volcano.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I used to be a straight-A student, but I’m not the most sciency gal in the group. When the aircraft struck the volcano, it triggered . . . something that caused basically the biggest blizzard in known history. Since Mom and I already lived in Alaska, we had some equipment to be prepared, but certainly not all.

Luckily, most frogs don’t live in -79 degree temperatures. I’ve heard scarce reports of frogs still living around here, but none were ever confirmed so I’m pretty sure we’re good.

One week later . . . 

Mom’s still not back. I only have a few packs of salami left. We still have that big bag of dog food, but I don’t know if my taste buds or my stomach can handle that level of grossness. Back when Sir Barksalot was still around, that food was the worst thing that we’d have to deal with.

Boredom is killing me. I’ve already read every single book that we have in this house. Every. Single. One. Even the adult novels that mom won’t let me read until I’m 18. She can’t really stop me if she isn’t here, right?

All of the word search and sudoku books are entirely filled out, and I don’t have any spare paper to draw on. I’d like to go out and get firewood, but it’s currently nighttime and I don’t want to risk any surviving frogs coming after me. 

I could explore the house, but I’ve gotten everywhere . . . I could explore the attic, but frogs could be up there too. But after all . . . if they’re not in the house, they can’t be in the attic, right?

I go into the hallway between Mom’s room and bathroom, grabbing the small rope connected to the tiny trap door. I practically have to pull with all of my weight just to make the rusty door budge. It releases with a loud squeak, causing several small clouds of dust to fall from the creases of it.

I cough as dust enters my lungs, sending a small splatter of saliva to land on my hand. I pull down the ladder fully, climbing up it slowly. For all the time I’ve been here, I’ve never once set foot inside the attic. I don’t even think Mom’s been up there before.

Once up, I look around. It seems mainly empty, with empty shelves and scatter boxes around the room. Dust floats through the air, looking like gentle snow as I walk around. Toward the middle of the room, something towers over everything else. It’s covered by a thin light gray sheet.

I walk over, pulling the sheet away, revealing a large ornate mirror. Years ago, I would have loved to have something like this. It was so beautiful, with small carved birds and flowers surrounding the rim of the mirror. I bet this would have gone for at least $2,000 when it was first bought. 

Upon closer inspection of the mirror itself, a sticky note is barely attached to it, with scribbles written all over. Scribbles of insanity, I suppose, as it just looks like a lunch of dots and shapes. 

I look closer at my reflection, half surprised. I still can’t believe that I only weigh 76 pounds. I used to weigh a little over 200. For more context, I was an avid wrestler. I was once nicknamed ‘Muscle Masie’. Good memories . . .

I place my hand to the glass, and a small light emits from the glass. I gasp, pulling my hand away from the glass. I backed away, but . . . my feet wouldn’t move. I was being sucked in.

I woke up on the floor. I’m surprised with how warm it is, when I open my eyes. I almost scream with what I see. I’m still in the attic, but . . . the attic isn’t right. Am I infected? Did a frog actually get into the house? Am I hallucinating before I begin dying?

But if I am, it’s pretty nice. Everything is really warm. I sit up, getting a better look around me. I notice the desk sitting beside me, and I stand up to get a better look. All over the desk are pictures of . . . me. Pictures of what I looked like in my wrestling days, full of smile and muscle.

One of the pictures reads ‘Muscle Masie wins wrestling tournament again!’. It makes me smile, then I notice the computer sitting atop it. Pictures of old friends line a column of the computer.

I watch as a message from my friend Rose pops up on the screen, asking where I am. I want to answer but even I know that this is fake. The smell emitting from a small plate beside the computer seems very much real, however. I grab what looks to be a cookie from off the plate, sticking the whole thing in my mouth at once.

The taste is heavenly: better than any salami I’ve ever eaten. I stick the rest into my mouth, forgetting all about hallucinating all of this. Maybe the frogs weren’t so bad after all.

I look back at the mirror: putting my hand back to it. Light once again emits, and I’m sucked back in.

So apparently, I just traveled to an alternate reality, at least, that’s how it seems. My stomach hurts with how much I’ve eaten. A half-open granola bar sits on the floor beside me. I’d love to eat that too, but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be stuck here.

I scratch my neck, still upset that the attic is no longer warm. I truly do miss the heater. 

The next week . . . 

Mom. Still. Isn’t. Back. I don’t know what she’s doing but it’s really starting to worry me about where she is. I’ve already reread all of the books in the house, again, and I think I’ve gotten an entire kid’s book memorized. 

I walk back up into the attic, still wondering if the incident from last week was just a hallucination. According to one of the mental health books in the house, isolation can lead to the beginnings of insanity and schizophrenia.

I put my hand to the mirror and wind up on the other side again. I didn’t pass out this time, maybe I’ve got a better chance at doing this more frequently if I communicate with the other person. Just a thought. I bet the other me has good books.

There’s another plate on the desk, with something that looks like cubed poop. It certainly doesn’t smell like cubed poop. It smells like chocolate and something else I can’t place my finger on.

I put one in my mouth, in love with the taste. I look at the computer, which now has several tabs open, one being some sort of chat page, and the others being all about paranormal mirrors and alternate universes.

I try to actually look around the room more this time. There are posters of what look to be bands and concerts. A small aquarium sits beside the desk on a bookshelf, containing a small, harmless looking frog. I try not to squeal. Frogs and humanity aren’t exactly friends.

I want to look around more, but I can feel myself being pulled back into the mirror.

The first thing I notice is a handwritten note on the mirror, saying ‘LEAVE ME ALONE’. Honestly, I’d love to. But this is the only entertainment I’ve gotten for three years now. 

I don’t like the other Masie. She’s eaten . . . all of my rations. If I stay here for any longer, I’m going to die of starvation. I lay on my sleeping bag, pulling a blanket over my head and going to sleep.

The next day, I made up my mind, putting the only remaining picture of Mom and I in my pocket. I grab a small hammer from one of the toolboxes and put it in my pocket before going back into the other world.

I can’t go back. Never again. There’s so much for me to see in this other world. So much for me to do. I look at the TV that’s playing in the opposite corner. “Breaking News: Reports of toxic rain being dumped all over the world. In Canada, we have reports of large and lumpy frogs.”

It’s happening again. I laugh, picking up the hammer. “Sorry, Masie.” I whisper, before slamming the hammer into the mirror.