“I’m sick of magic mirrors”, my teenage daughter protested, “I don’t like seeing grotesque forms of myself.”
“These are not those deforming, illusionary mirrors. You will be transformed forever.” His voice appeared to come from another plane.
“What? You mean deformities will be permanent?”
“There are no deformities here. The tormentor and tormented look alike, and then twist themselves trying to make sense of all they did.”
“Who is the tormentor?”
“Your mind. You will emerge a winner at the other end.”
“What are you selling?” I was scared, though I couldn’t admit it to myself.
“A game called Empathy.”