The Mirror (standard:Psychological fiction, 1630 words)
Author: awenyddion	Added: Aug 03 2005	Views/Reads: 3883/2493	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Sometimes the image that we see, is not what we want.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

only loud and sharp. Like train whistles, one after another. No matter 
how I modify it, the tone, structure. My inheritance is what defines 
it; my experience molds it with time and effort. I have not known 
silence, for talking was once my passion. Now it is a hell that I must 
endure for communication, and that alone. Oh retched mouth, how you who 
can't let anything beautiful and harmonically come out of your 
entrails, why do you desire? Yes, it desires what I desire. To be 
loved, to be kissed, to be alive. A mouth is alive when it is nursed 
with passion, ecstasy, love and temptation. A sweetness brought by 
love, understood by ardor and done by instinct. It holds back wanting 
more with each taste, then feeling unfilled when denied a bite. Then, 
how can it want what it has never had? No, it shouldn't, but it does. 
My mind wishes to ripe it off, the disgrace. Yet, it will not, reason 
dominates my mouth just as Moses dominated the Red Sea, holding it long 
enough before it lets go the storm within. I bite my lip hard, causing 
a sore sensation. A penitence for its lustful thoughts. Moving down I 
examine what is left. 

My hands, small and diminutive, once called baby hands. Covered in ink,
symbol of my soul and life purpose. My true joy are not the beauty of 
my hand but what marvels they can accomplish. Words flow from their 
fingertips. Prose describing lands unseen by the human eye, witnessed 
by the mind alone. Their fingers each hold a story to tell, a sacrifice 
to endure, all for the sake of words. Without them, my life would feel 
incomplete and useless, my mind a blur, my love would die of grief. 
Sweet hands, with their  dainty shape and soft texture.  A smile 
touches my lips as I observer their magnificent shapes in the mirror. 
My pride grows then withers as my sigh falls on the rest of my thick 
body. 

My thick legs, hips, middle all hidden in baggy white pajamas. My torso,
small and completely opposite of my lower body, also dressed in white. 
White. The color of hope, freedom, liberty, life. I should be wearing 
black for my mood serves it more justice then this enigmatic white. 
Black, its morbid texture, pitiful meaning of misery and fear. No, I 
refuse to wear black. It would welcome the demons within me. Let them 
free, scare me into insanity. Those who welcome themselves into my bed, 
into my sleep. My dreams turn to nightmares that tear my invisible 
flesh, cause sores in my heart and painful perspiration on my brow. 
They spook there way into me, I can't face them, not now.  As I close 
my eyes, tears fall down my cheeks, a stream of despair and 
helplessness.  I turn away from the mirror looking out into the 
darkness outside. I know where the gun is. The top shelf, always 
loaded. I know where it is. The silencer is in a box. I know where it 
is... Will it be worth it? No, it wouldn't. The world wants me to do 
it. It wants me to suffer. No, the gun won't help. I turn back to the 
mirror. The reflection taunts me, smiling wickedly at me. I smile back 
and with my entire strength. I jab my fist into the glass, fracturing 
the image and all the demons inside it. The glass cuts my hand. My 
pride and joy. Their beauty lost with each puncture, with each wound. I 
stare at the shattered glass on the floor. Feeling the emptiness drain 
with it, knowing its power to control me. Like the witch in Snow White, 
consumed by her vanity and greed. 

The mirror is gone. For now. For good. For my life. The price was paid,
the deed done. Blood oozes down my hand. Fragments of glass become part 
of my skin. The bloody reflection staring back at me.  I stare and 
smile coolly, composed, the tears gone. Why shed tears? Worthless 
tears, drops of salt decorating my face. They are not going to make it 
better, nor worse. The small hand feels numb, like a corpes. Turning my 
back on my dead and tormenting mirror, I shut off the lights, bringing 
darkness into the small room. The door that leads outside is open. 
Outside where the dark night welcomes me, feeling my pain, giving me 
strength. Unafraid I search for the moon and her comfort. I bask in her 
motherly glow breathing something new. The air is crisp and calm. I 
recognize that feeling; the animal inside me hauls marking the night 
with the sound of liberty. The rapture that only comes with wild, 
glorious freedom!


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