Ok everyone, I just completed a short story. Haven't really revised it a lot or edited it much. Most people know I'm a sucker for not editing my work. Anyhow, I was trying to practice some technical aspects of my writing that I think are weaker than others. Let me know what you all think.



Title: Mirror




Open your eyes.

No.

Open your eyes.

No!!

What are you afraid of?

I…I don’t know.

Silence. Waiting. He was aware of his own ragged breathing. His eyelids slowly parted, revealing darkness. He opened them fully. Pupils dilated, the fuzz washed itself away, and the picture became clearer.

Do you see?

In the darkness in front of him, he was able to discern a form. Black, pitched against a background lighter only by small degrees. So close he could have reached out and touched it, had he control of his limbs.

He focused upon the head, banishing the surroundings to the realm of unimportance. Eyes like a burning desert sun glared intently back at him.

Do you see?

I don’t understand. What should I see?

The eyes flashed impatience in front of him. Anger. So intense it seemed to burn, as though the rage housed in those burning coals had the power to flay the skin from his bones. He wanted to flinch away from the gaze, but it arrested him. Intriguing as much as terrifying. Familiar, yet distant.

What do you want?

I have what I want. What do you want?

The question shocked him, so unexpected it was. What do I want? He pondered. There was a difficulty in this, as in all things at this stage. He realized, suddenly, that he had no memory. The past seemed to have been enveloped by a shroud thicker than a storm cloud. Just out of reach, yet tantalizingly close. He grasped in futility. Heard himself grunt, although the effort was far from physical. Where are my memories?

They are hidden.

Why?

Because you lack understanding.

He stared at the eyes. They stared back. Molten orbs, he seemed to be simultaneously drowning and burning in their depths.

There was a noise, constant, grating at him. Static. Though he didn’t know what that was.

Show me.

A flash in the brain, like a shot of acid. His hands were clutched to the side of his head. It appeared he did have control of his limbs, after all. His eyes were closed now, staring inward. Still, through the images of pain, death, mutilation – each picture worse than the last, he saw the eyes boring into him. Could feel them, drilling into his soul.

The images had stopped, yet it was many long moments before he could open his eyes again, look upon the as of yet unknown once again. Sweat beaded upon his brow.

Who are you?

I am your family.

Family. The word triggered an emotion. Regret. He didn’t understand, didn’t expect to.

You are my family?

There are no others.

Surely, though, there would be others. Everyone had a family. Where had they all gone? How could this person be his only family?

What happened to the rest of my family?

There are no others.

Where am I?

Your home.

He tried to look around him, but every time he tried to look away, his eyes were dragged back towards the silhouette in front of him. Staring back, stealing his gaze, reading his thoughts. A familiar anger was boiling.

What right have you to imprison me in my own home?

You are not imprisoned by me.

Frustration. Confusion.

Then by whom?

Everyone else.

He grasped inwardly for understanding. Found emotions. Depths, depths of anger, deep wells of rage. Shame, and an unquenchable thirst.

What is the cause?

Your rage is caused by your jailors. Everyone.

The cloud over his memory was slowly lifting. There was a life, hidden in there. Work, a small apartment, a woman, and children. Screaming, yelling, crying.

You lied, I have a family.

There are no others. I am your family.

He wasn’t sure anymore. But it didn’t seem to matter. There was nothing positive in those memories anyhow. No joy, nothing pleasing. Only the anger. The helpless frustration. Images flashed through his mind, tainted red.

Do you see?

Someone had once told him that life was a circle. Without beginnings, without endings. Only repetition and perspective. He understood where he was on the circle, now. Perspective.

Yes. Perspective, and repetition. There is no ending.

He found he had the power to nod his head, slightly. There was an understanding here, tenuously held, yet held nonetheless. He looked at the eyes, savage, piercing, judging. Remembered thinking they were familiar.

Do you see?

Yes, I see now.

The eyes were, of course, his own.

The surroundings weren’t as dark as they had once seemed, either. Red, instead of black. Streaks everywhere, a pool on the floor. The mirror in front of him was cracked, pieces were missing. He hadn’t noticed before.

He turned around, stepped in the red pool. Didn’t notice, didn’t care. The static was from the television, in the room outside. There was red out there, as well. On the floor, the furniture, the wall. Even a splash across the TV screen, he thought there was an irony in that.

The voice was gone now, but he knew what it wanted. Knew what he wanted. There had been judgement in those eyes.

Life was a circle, without beginnings and endings. Yet he felt there was a beginning here, somewhere. He smiled, and walked towards the door.

Towards judgement.






2004, Bryan Clegg