I picked up a notebook and a world of guilt opened up in front of me. Guilt so powerful that it warped the reality around someone that witnessed something horrible.

—

He told the detectives he didn’t see anything.

That part was true, at least after he covered his eyes.

He did see though. He got a look at the murderer, but his fear muted him. Fear and denial replaced the truth.

When the man pulled the knife, he covered his face, a child’s instinct, useless and pure.

He heard the sound. The wet kind.

Then silence.

He told himself it wasn’t his fault.

That he didn’t see.

That made it easier.

Until the next morning.

He looked in the mirror to shave and nearly dropped the razor.

His reflection’s eyes were closed. Not blinking, closed.

He leaned closer, pressed his fingers to his own eyelids. They opened.

The reflection’s didn’t.

He tried again the next day.

Still closed.

He smashed that mirror, bought another.

Same thing.

Weeks passed.

No matter what he did, where he went, bathroom mirrors, store windows, car glass, his reflection never looked back.

It was like his reflection was done with him.

Months later, he stopped noticing. Stopped caring. You can get used to anything, even being ignored by yourself.

Then one night he was having dinner at a roadside diner. The kind that still had chrome trim and a wall of mirrors behind the counter.

He lifted his coffee and froze.

His reflection was looking at him.

Eyes open for the first time in months.

And they weren’t looking at him.

They were looking past him.

Over his shoulder.

Toward the front door.

He turned.

A man had just walked in, a heavy coat, baseball cap pulled low. He asked the waitress for the key to the restroom, then disappeared down the hallway.

When he turned back, his reflection was no longer copying him.

It was still staring, head turned and looking right at that hallway.

He stared too, his pulse pounding.

It couldn’t be. It had been almost a year.

But the reflection didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Just kept watching that hallway like it knew.

He stood, his chair scraping loud against the floor. The waitress looked up, confused.

He didn’t say a word. Just followed the reflection’s gaze.

Down the hall. Past the humming soda machine. To the men’s room door.

A man’s voice inside, humming, casual, off-key.

He pushed the door open.

The humming stopped.

When the police arrived, they found two men in the restroom.

One sitting on the floor beside the trash can, trembling, face in his hands.

The other sprawled beside the sink, a knife beside him, a look of absolute surprise frozen on his face.

The trembling man stared at himself in the chrome trashcan, then he told them he’d finally seen his reflection again.

And this time... he didn’t look away.

—

Now that guilt is released, it seems that the chains of a different sort bind around him.

« Previous Entry | Next Entry »