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Friday, June 23, 2017

"Short Story Break? Reflections of a Mirror Man" by Dezerro - 6.23.17

Entry Submitted by Dezerro at 12:50 AM EDT on June 23, 2017

Reflections of a Mirror Man

Polished smooth and clear, the exposed edge of the heavy, time worn glass window invited more than a casual glance. When I peered in, I then perhaps knew, just below that misty boundary layer of awareness...my future.

That was a long time ago. And now is now, with me and my mirrors. Oh the magic of swinging one shining plane closer to another, like a door toward a wall, and then peering between them, deeper and deeper within.

Could one become lost in this maze of glistening spaces? Certainly not went the prevailing conservative view. Most people don’t bother, but would they not care to meet what goes silently within a mirror’s glassine face?

Now my reflection was my dearest friend. And my last truly pleasant memory of the usual, a wide beam of sunlight piercing smouldering clouds and scattered trees to warm a portion of deep forest, chimed lightly in my mind at will, though barren for so long now of any real mirth in its recalling.

Poorly endowed of natural social skills, an odd stoop to my jerking foreward gait, never learned matings of color and design of wardrobe now ignored, it was in my reflection I found a quiet solace.

My highest mirror, an odd inheritance -- I knew nothing of certain relatives -- sent across the sea lashed fast with heavy rough rope, deep in a battered steel freighter. It now towered eight feet toward my apartment’s peaked ceiling and spread almost five feet wide.

The mirror’s depth, that of its frame but primarily of its glass, were difficult to determine accurately. Why I do not know, nor do I really care. For after all, simply there within its crystal face lay any worth it might hold for me.

Encircled in dark stained hardwood framework, and supported in a monstrous widebase free standing frame, the piece had originally rolled about as necessary on four ancient wooden rollers, now nearly frozen in place within their darkly stained and corroded metal cages.

When moved, something no worker could ever enjoy, it would emit a horrible high-pitched howling screech. Yet when one time I bent low to verify the rollers as the sound’s source, it became obvious they were not. This I had long ago quietly ignored.

With thick black eyebrows raising high, an appraiser, a crusty old historian, once noting dark curls of grain within the frame, had long paused in solemn study, had gasped, and then had quickly left without a word. Yes, it was a fascinating piece.

I had others, many others, but none so large. And none of such an aura -- as though it held some dark plan. Rare visitors gave it wide berth and seemed never to peer into it for long at all.

Years ago I first barely noticed, in mimic reflections of my own actions, something odd. Should I raise my arm twelve inches, my reflection would respond with eleven or thirteen, or more or less, but never twelve!

And so this progressed as time waned -- I always felt time to be running out. I imagined a gradual erosion of certain rules -- those of my life, or perhaps an approach of the abysmal.

I am certain I remained...stable, for a time at least, via the ploy of partial observation -- a deviation of clear gaze from the direct route ahead. Yet might such an aversion to truth lead one in time to darker routes to the very core of madness? Had I truly looked, my final destination might have remained a serene occasion, rather than the plot of certain strange events.

Yet is not the purest evil a sublime wonder for its very purity, thus worthy of pursuit? The question, even now, looms high. Dire questions are best answered -- such an easy demand to make.

In addition to my mirrors, every unattended portion of glass reasonably within reach, whether of automobile, of house, or of business, was there for my unique social interaction while enroute to local stores or engaged upon errands.

Bristled green hedges, tough and surviving all seasons, parallel and partner to hard grey concrete walkways, inspired no admiration, no slightest interest of mine, for they reflected nothing. Polished auto bodies sufficed at times, though perverting dimensions and hues in their curving, colored designs.

Distant heatwaves rising shimmering from black tarmac inspired a hope that others like me waiting there behind hot sheens might mimic my waves of hand, my nods of forehead, my peering glassy eyes. Upon my arrival, shimmers fading as I approached, they were always gone.

And finally I knew that but for my images, I needed no one.

Nearly one year ago, a surprise to me for venturing out so, I returned from a voyage of solitary bliss. Alone I was, even though people there, participants in a cruise aboard “Majestic Sailor,” wandered about in great number; I had my tall sheets of upper decks glass to roam.

Calm skies, leaning off the lowest oiled wooden rails, provided glassine seas for my interactions. Diving from the aft deck into brine I passed to wet, refreshing cold and then back again. Only a few times did the thought pulse within my mind, My final outing.

Arriving home, I dined, bathed, and curled warmly under wool and cotton to sleep.

Dreams arose and faded, calming me with visions of passing from one layered realm to another in flowing adventure -- yet each one slower than the last.

When I awoke I felt light, so shallow, thin and restricted as though pressed between two great flats of invisible force.

I peered. That was my room, but it was out there! How could it be? Did I remain in my dreams -- trapped within some strange two dimensional plane of pseudo-life?

NO! NO! For I had awoken!! Well then, where was I? In the mirror??

And then a visage, something dead and thin and weak yet somehow moving, entered there, slowing at each step as though a great ancient spring were winding down. Turning sideways, it diminished to a thin line. Another quarter turn and it was there like a flat layer of artist’s oils on canvas.

In a jerking stooping gait it finally faced me directly. There my displaced reflection gazed from deep within a vibrant world of three dimensions, my room, a living place -- not a dead, flat ode to evil.

It raised an arm straight up; I raised mine halfway. Slower still it raised an elbow to shoulder height; I moved mine only slightly. It blinked dull eyes; I stared, eyes wide, unmoving.

HA! All these were now my revenge for its original imperfect mimicry. Yet my revenge was far from sweet, for I knew that unless it moved first, I must remain still.

Perhaps it might reenergize in its new place. It must use this fading energy to learn how to move there, to gather new energy!

It MUST!!

Could I will it? After all, in some strange way it was me.

It began a descent to the heavily padded armchair and sat, so agonizingly slow, down, down, down, its somehow temporarily acquired inertia waning fast.

I knew then that my reflection, devoid of volition, knew nothing of that three dimensional world, knew nothing of warm, living action left to right, front to rear, up and down. It knew nothing at all!

You deranged ignorant fool, move! M O V E ! !

I tried to scream but it did not scream first. I tried to flail my arms, yet it did not first raise its own. I was in a plush chair, somehow absurdly padded in two dimensions deep within the mirror.

And as I sat, I waited...we waited – both of us now – forever reflections - waited for each other to move.

The End

- Dezerro

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