The Shattered Soul

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. She stood facing away from me, head cocked a little as if listening. The bathroom walls were charred and black, like her hair. She swiveled suddenly to look at me. I quickly averted my eyes. Then the microwave was beeping and my husband’s voice echoed down the hall.

“Are you going to get that?” he yelled.

“Of course, honey!” I responded, shaken. The bathroom mirror had returned to normal, and I reached out tentatively to touch it. My fingertips touched my own.

When I brought the popcorn in from the kitchen, my husband quickly slid his phone into his pocket. “It’s about time. Are we going to watch this movie or what?”

“Of course, honey,” I said. I thought of telling him what I saw, but did not.

* * *

“Remember to clean the attic,” my husband told me before leaving for work.

“I won’t forget,” I responded.

“You better not,” he said, and then left.

I hated cleaning the attic. It was filled with the shapeless remains of our past: dusty votives, wedding gifts, an unused crib, all covered in quilts. One object was uncovered, though; a full-length mirror with a dark wooden frame. It had been here since we bought the house, but never uncovered.

I set down my red bucket of cleaning supplies and took a closer look. It was curiously weathered, as if the mirror had stood outside in the harsh sun and pouring rain. As I walked in front of the mirror, I realized it did not reflect the darkened attic. It showed our bedroom downstairs, with my husband lying naked on the bed. A blond woman came into the bedroom, also naked, and got on top of him. She threw her head back in silent ecstasy. I screamed and ran downstairs to the bedroom, but the bed was empty. There was nobody there.

When my husband returned from work, I heard him stomp angrily through the house. He pounded on the bathroom door and yelled, looking for me. There was no response. I sat quietly in front of the mirror upstairs. It had been years since I recognized myself, but now her eyes stared back– sunken, broken, dark.

The fire that began in my heart spread to the living room, then the kitchen. In the mirror, her eyes were red. His scream cut through the crackling sound of crumbling timber. Fractures as thin as spider-silk ran across her face now, and the wooden frame was stained with muddy eyeliner and dried blood. Fissures grew at the base of the mirror and silver shards were scattered at her feet. My feet, too. Behind me, my shadow quivered as if waking from a dream. It grew, unoppressed, until the attic glistened with darkness. That’s how she liked it. And I did too.

***

Downstairs, the screaming continues. My hands, her hands, reach down to the pile of broken glass. They touch, there– just the fingertips. Grasping together, they seize a handful of sharp fragments. I feel a comforting warmth as crimson shadows grow from my palm. She’s with me in the shattered reflection as I glide downstairs, where fire is roaring and ripping paint off the walls. He’s shouting and I’m screaming, or she is. The voice is harsh, like his. He runs at my face and meets a handful of shattered crimson. He’s screaming, or I am. His fist arcs down like a straight bolt of lightning and strikes my shoulder. I feel her reaching for his neck, finding it. My fingers puncture his throat like reaching into a wedding cake. There isn’t much screaming then.

“No more screaming now. That won’t do. Whimpering’s fine, I can work with whimpering –” I say.

He chokes on warm blood as I drag him up the stairs.

“Welcome to the remnant,” I say, “the decadence of barren splendor. Do you remember these toys?”

He whimpers. The dusty votives line the room, swaying in the shadows. They’re not covered now. The broken mirror shines blackly.

“Shall you do the honor, or shall I?” But we both say it, her and I.