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The Hogs of Entropy 0077
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| | ...Hogs of Entropy Text Files Present... | |
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| | "The Other Side of the Mirror" | |
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| | By: Black Sunshine | |
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Charles Mullins awoke with the knowledge of what he had to do. He smiled
at the memory of the dream he'd just had; everything had been perfect. Too
perfect...
Sweat coated his arms lightly and he shivered, though he'd gone to bed in
a t-shirt and jeans. He sat up in the dark and swung his legs over the side
of the bed.
Can I really do it?
He stood up and was immediately overcome with a sense of unfamiliarity.
Where am I?
That was always his first thought upon awakening. Even nine years ago,
when he'd been ten, he could remember waking up in the dead of night, safe in
his own bed, with his mother snoring softly in the other bedroom, and he
would wonder where he was, who he was. At first, the answer would not come
to him.
His dreams were the only place that seemed real to him, the only place
where he had an identity. When he awoke, that identity would cease to exist.
He had come to the conclusion that he was living out the wrong life, that
someone somewhere else was trapped in his life, and thinking the very same
thing. Lately, it had become difficult for Charlie to tell the difference
between fantasy and reality.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and crept silently down the dark hall
into the kitchen. He opened the drawer under the counter and withdrew the
largest knife he could find-- not a butcher knife, but it would do the job.
He held the blade up to examine it. It glittered in the moonlight that
filtered in through the cheap curtains covering the kitchen window. He
looked at the clock above the stove: 4:28 AM.
Charlie crept back around the corner and down the hall to his mother's
bedroom. She was snoring softly.
Can I really do it?
He could see her in the moonlight, her old, thin body twisted under the
sheet. He could do nothing but stare at her for perhaps five minutes and
remember.
His hate consumed him.
He lowered the knife until the blade was resting under her chin. Power
filled him and adrenaline rushed through his body. His knife hand twitched
in anticipation.
"Bitch," he whispered.
She opened her eyes.
He gasped and jerked, running the blade smoothly into her flesh. Blood
leaked out from between the wound, and her mouth froze in a mockery of an
incessant scream.
The it was over. In shock, Charlie reached over and flipped on the
overhead light. There was no doubt that she was dead.
He raised the knife to gaze at the red serum gathering at the tip, as if
that alone was going to provide the evidence he needed to affirm that he had
just killed his mother. More of the power throbbed within him, sending a
surge of adrenaline to every appendage on his body.
He couldn't bring himself to let go of the knife yet.
He stumbled across the room to the bathroom, meaning to wash his hands.
Tiny beads of sweat had reappeared on his face, and stained his shirt around
the armpits. His t-shirt--
"I can't wear this!" he suddenly cried out, frantically. Crimson
splatters adorned it as if they'd purposely been printed on it.
He started to take off the shirt before he remembered that his mother
wouldn't like it if he paraded around the house without a shirt on.
But then he remembered that she was dead.
A new feeling of freedom and relief filled him, and a tear slid down his
cheek where it mingled with the sweat.
She's dead! I'm free! Isn't she? Yes. Forever. For good. She's dead.
I'm free. Is she really dead? Yes, I think so. Is she? Yes. Is she?
Yes. Is she?
He tried to shift his mind away from the painful memories--all the days
and nights of being locked in the dark hall closet alone with no food or
hours. He would cry and beg for hours.
Mommy please let me out because it's dark and cold and dirty in here, and
i can hear the bugs crawling in the walls and feel them creeping up my legs
and i'm scared it's dark mommy and i'm scared of the dark please let me out
of here i'm sorry i'm so sorry...
There were three main waves that affected him in those dark and dismal
hours he spent in the closet: the hunger wave, the thirst wave and the
bathroom wave. Soon the three blended into one raw, searing need to continue
life.
It became difficult for him to tell night from day; it was all the same to
him, those blurry hours in the closet. So he slept when he felt like it,
which was most of the time. He would awake to the never-ending darkness and
the gnawing hunger in his stomach and unrelieved pressure in his bladder.
This was where his line between fantasy and reality had begun to blur.
Those many dark hours seemed dreamlike, yet at the same time, were very real.
How much time was he actually in the closet? Did it matter?
Hours melted into days.
Then his mother would open the closet door one morning, like a mirage or
some kind of angel coming to rescue him, and grab him up, shivering and
faint, into her arms.
"Got to pay," she'd whisper in his ear, as she fed him warm chicken soup
and gave him cold milk to drink. "Your father sinned when he brought you
into this world against my will. Men are evil. There's something in a man
that's cold and hard, something that makes him cruel. Unfortunately, men
were blessed with the ability to hide their ulterior motives until it's too
late to see them. You will one day grow into a man. Say you're sorry."
"I'm sorry," Charlie would say without hesitation, and truly, he was,
because he didn't know any better.
"Are you really?" she glared down at him and narrowed her eyes
suspiciously.
"Yes, mommy, I am."
But like the hours in the closet that melted into days, the months in his
life dwindled slowly into years. Charlie began to seek out what female
companionship had been missing in his life from the girls he met at school.
But when he was repeatedly shunned, he came to realize that men were not the
evil ones. Women were the cold, hard, cruel ones. Women were the ones with
hidden intentions.
His speculation and fear had turned to hate over the past year. He began
to detest the entire female gender. Fuck them. He didn't need any of them,
especially now.
Charlie wiped the tears from his face and stepped into the bathroom. He
finally allowed himself to let go of the knife, laying it on the edge of the
sink. He ran his hands under the warm water, letting the blood trickle down
the drain. As he did so, he stared into the mirror at his reflection.
Something about his face was different.
Charlie dried his hands quickly and began to stare hard at the mirror,
bringing his face closer to it, turning it first left, then right. He had
always had a slightly handsome, yet rugged face, blonde shoulder-length hair
and dark brown eyes. He was a pale man, though, and had always been very
thin. He was only five foot seven, and knew he wasn't going to get any
taller.
He ran his hand down his cheek, scratching at his razor stubble, and
frowned.
What is it?
He couldn't put his finger on it. At first. Then it dawned on him.
The change he was seeing was an internal one. His appearance hadn't
changed, he had. He'd had a taste of the power, the blood; he had crossed
over the line, and something inside of him knew there was no going back.
He stared harder into the mirror, searching for himself, as he had always
done.
Who am I? Am I bad because I killed her?
Yes. It was wrong.
Then why am I so relieved? How can it feel so right? Why do I feel so
powerful?
He gazed into his own eyes, and realized they had become the eyes of a
stranger. It wasn't even him.
He reached out to touch the cold, reflective glass, but instead felt warm,
calloused fingers-- his own. He laid his palm flat against his reflection's,
his gaze locked with himself.
Enough of this. How far can this go?
He closed his eyes and plunged into the reflection. He felt himself
sinking into the pit of his inner self. The walls were tall and the entrance
was narrow and there wasn't any light.
Utter blackness surrounded him, enveloped him, began to suffocate him.
The emptiness deeply saddened and confused him, before he realized that he
was taking a glimpse of his own soul.
If you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you...
His soul was totally empty. The pit of nothingness seemed to extend on
forever, yet at the same time, seemed to be closing in on him, trapping him.
...the abyss gazes also into you...
That was when Charlie began to scream--
--mommy it's dark and cold in here and i'm scared so please let me out i'm
sorry i'm afraid of the dark it's so dark and dirty in here so dark please
please please let me out--
And suddenly, he was out, back in the face of his own reflection. Charlie
and his image questioned and probed each other with their eyes: Who are you?
What are you doing in me? Why have you violated me this way?
Charlie's hand was still flat against his reflection's, and now he removed
it and rubbed the fingertips together.
Then with one quick motion, he pushed his fingertips into the mirror, into
the unknown beyond. His fingers felt suddenly numb. The reflection's
fingers had pushed their way through to his side.
Stunned, Charlie pulled his hand away as a tingling sensation pulsated in
his fingers. He stared at his hand for a minute, his reflection mimicking
the action. He then raised his head to stare at himself for one awed
instant.
Then, without thinking, Charlie thrust his arm into the mirror up to his
elbow. His reflection simultaneously did the same.
Charlie wanted to go into the mirror, for there was where he knew he would
find himself. He would finally know himself, and know where he belonged.
However, when he tried to plunge his other arm through, it just wouldn't go.
The arm that was branching out of the mirror from his side maneuvered
slowly towards the knife that Charlie had laid by the faucets while he washed
his hands.
Charlie saw this and jerked his arm out of the mirror, expecting his
reflection to do the same, but it didn't.
The fingers of his reflection's hand closed around the handle of the knife
and brought it slowly, slowly to Charlie's chest.
He gazed at his face in the mirror, and at that moment, he understood. He
knew that was where he wanted to be, and that this was how he could get
there.
"Do it," Charlie whispered to himself. The reflection did not hesitate.
He drove the cold blade deep into Charlie's heart. Charlie gasped, filled
with the worst pain he ever knew and ever would again. His eyes glowed with
the agony, but he didn't back away or feel remorse. He was dying, but
somehow he wasn't. He was just beginning to live.
When at last Charlie's eyes closed involuntarily with death and his heart
ceased to beat, the reflection's arm pulled the knife out of him and let him
fall to the floor.
And finally, Charlie was on the other side of the mirror. He was the
reflection. He dissolved into nothing.
"Matricide," said Officer Larry Holden, surveying the grim scene with
indifferent eyes. " ...and suicide."
The sight was enough to turn him away after only a few seconds of
observation. As he did, something caught his eye.
What is it?
Something about the way Mullins was lying caused Holden to question the
integrity of his report. He finally realized it was the guy's hands. He was
gripping something--tight--in his right hand.
Holden pried the object from Charlie's hand, cringing in disgust. It was
a piece of paper, folded until it was about the size of a quarter.
Curiously, Holden unfolded it, smoothing the edges.
Creasing his eyebrows, Holden read it, then reread it, then read it a
third time. When the hell did he have time to write this? Holden looked
once again at the body at his feet.
"Did I really kill myself? Isn't an image in a mirror just a reflection
of the real thing? Is it suicide when your reflection, your inner self, is
finally found? Is it suicide when only one part of you wants to be dead? Is
it possible for your mind and your soul to be at battle with one another?
Maybe, maybe not. Who can say, when a reflection of something in your past
returns to haunt you, whether that reflection is you, or just a part of you?
I guess you could say that I'm saved now. I'm found. Do people ever really
find themselves? Do they ever really know what's on the other side of the
mirror?"
There the letter abruptly stopped. Holden glanced at the body once more,
then at the note, then at the mirror above the sink.
Something about his face was different.
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Copyright (c) 1995 HoE Publications, Souls at Zero, & Black Sunshine. #77-5/1
All rights Reserved. Original edit from SaZ.
