My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
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I'm a starving artist—literally.
No matter how many canvases I filled, my work never sold. There were times I couldn't even scrape together enough for groceries.
Then, some fortune teller told me my problem wasn't talent—it was inspiration. I just needed the right spark.
And what was that spark, according to him?
Two words: feng shui.
So three years ago, I moved into this place—solely because he swore the energy here could turn my luck around.
I threw myself into my art, locking myself away to create.
But the universe had a sick sense of humor. My work got worse. One night, in a blind rage, I shredded every last painting.
That was the night I lost it.
I killed the lights, let the lightning outside be my only illumination, and trashed my entire room.
Once everything was destroyed, I was ready to snap my brushes and jump.
But then—I smashed the bathroom mirror.
And behind it?
Not a wall.
A hollow, gaping darkness.
I leaned in, half-expecting something to grab me.
The space was tight—just big enough to crawl into. Inside, damp wood and rusted nails littered the floor.
Probably some lazy construction crew cutting corners when they built this place.
At the far end, a brown surface.
I reached out—and realized it wasn't a wall.
It was the back of another mirror.
And as far as I knew, the room on the other side was empty.
That's when the idea hit me.
Suddenly, suicide was the last thing on my mind.
For days, I ignored my brushes and sketchbooks, obsessing over that cramped passage.
I couldn't just smash my way through—too obvious, too messy.
So I bought a hammer and got to work.
One by one, I drove the loose nails into the outline of the opposite mirror.
Each strike sent a crack spiderwebbing through the wall—until the shape of the mirror was perfectly traced in fractures.
One final push—
The glass shattered, dust exploding into the air.
I crawled through, retrieved the broken mirror, and replaced it with the two-way glass I'd bought in secret.
The fit was flawless.
To anyone else, it was just a mirror.
But to me?
A perfect, invisible window.
No matter how many canvases I filled, my work never sold. There were times I couldn't even scrape together enough for groceries.
Then, some fortune teller told me my problem wasn't talent—it was inspiration. I just needed the right spark.
And what was that spark, according to him?
Two words: feng shui.
So three years ago, I moved into this place—solely because he swore the energy here could turn my luck around.
I threw myself into my art, locking myself away to create.
But the universe had a sick sense of humor. My work got worse. One night, in a blind rage, I shredded every last painting.
That was the night I lost it.
I killed the lights, let the lightning outside be my only illumination, and trashed my entire room.
Once everything was destroyed, I was ready to snap my brushes and jump.
But then—I smashed the bathroom mirror.
And behind it?
Not a wall.
A hollow, gaping darkness.
I leaned in, half-expecting something to grab me.
The space was tight—just big enough to crawl into. Inside, damp wood and rusted nails littered the floor.
Probably some lazy construction crew cutting corners when they built this place.
At the far end, a brown surface.
I reached out—and realized it wasn't a wall.
It was the back of another mirror.
And as far as I knew, the room on the other side was empty.
That's when the idea hit me.
Suddenly, suicide was the last thing on my mind.
For days, I ignored my brushes and sketchbooks, obsessing over that cramped passage.
I couldn't just smash my way through—too obvious, too messy.
So I bought a hammer and got to work.
One by one, I drove the loose nails into the outline of the opposite mirror.
Each strike sent a crack spiderwebbing through the wall—until the shape of the mirror was perfectly traced in fractures.
One final push—
The glass shattered, dust exploding into the air.
I crawled through, retrieved the broken mirror, and replaced it with the two-way glass I'd bought in secret.
The fit was flawless.
To anyone else, it was just a mirror.
But to me?
A perfect, invisible window.
End of My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom book page.