Shattered Mirror

      Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The only sound I can hear in my miniature house is my pendulum clock sitting off to my left in the darkness. The entirety of my house has been cloaked in darkness, all except my little corner, which is lit by a dainty candle. In my little haven, I sit crouched over a battered desk. My head pounds as the blood rushes to my temples. I should lift my head up, but I don't want to. I like it down by my paper; down by my work it will stay. These are not just words on the page now; these are my little children. I love letting them out to play. As I huddle over my little playthings, I whisper my mantra, " Success brings honor, honor brings love." My family never loved me. They were never proud of me. They never cared for me. They always thought I was different, that I was crazy. I'm not crazy.
         A clap of thunder echoes around me, and my head jerks up. My eyes wide, I peer around quickly at my quaint surroundings. Everything is fine. No harm done. A small giggle escapes me at the thought of rain. It rains more than the sun shines out here, but no matter. I like the rain. It helps me write. Speaking of writing, I must get back to my work. My best seller. I always write best sellers. I must not stop writing them. My family could never possibly love me then. Back to it.
         Word after word flows from my virtuoso brain. Each line a stroke, each stroke more wondrous then the last, till, finally, my poem climaxes. A sharp knock on the door interrupts my pleasurable celebration. Who has the nerve to pound on my door in the middle of the night? I clean up a bit to ensure that there are no remains from my pleasure, and walk to the door.
         Upon its opening, I spy a little man standing there. He's soaked from the pouring rain, and his face is bright red. It's rather cold outside, not like in my warm little house. In fact, I should invite the poor man inside, but I won't. I don't  like strangers in my house. They might try to steal my little children from their happy page. So, instead, I block the door with my body and inquire of him, "Can I help you?"
         His eyes stare deep into mine. I love eyes. I love human eyes, animal eyes and the minds' eye. Eyes captivate me. As I stare into his eyes, he replies, " Hello sir, I just came to warn you of a man loose in the countryside."
         "A man loose?" I sarcastically reply, my voice dripping with fake empathy.
         "Yes, he's a serial killer. He escaped from McLeay's home for the Criminally Insane last night, and he hasn't been seen since. I'm just going door to door, warning people to be on their guard."
         "Oh dear!" I fake scream, enjoying watching my guest jump a little bit, " I'll have to keep my eyes peeled."
         He eyes me cautiously before replying, "Ok sir, just making sure you know."
         "Sure do, Captain! No need to worry about me!" I holler before slamming the door in his face.  I hate when people bother me while I'm writing; I just hate it. Oh well, back to work. No harm done. With that, I sit back down and continue to play with my little children, arranging them this way and that. An hour later there's another knock at the door. This one is soft, barely noticeable, but I notice. I always notice when something is not right. This knock is most definitely not right. I drop my pen and stroll over to the door once again, throwing it open with an undue amount of force. I am taken aback by the sight that awaits me.
         A average sized man, at least I think it is a man, is standing on my front step. A long grey trench coat covers his entire body and the coat looks to be a few sizes too big. Looking up from his feet, the last thing I notice catches me off guard. This man has a hat pulled over his face. His eyes are nowhere to be seen. I don't like this one bit. I need to see his eyes. There's no way that I can send him off without seeing his eyes. I must invite him in. I just must.
         "Would you like to come in?" I ask the man, attempting to hide my true motives behind a large cheeky grin. He stands there for a second and then proceeds to take a step into my doorway. He gets one foot inside before I remember what the little man has told me only an hour before. "You aren't that serial killer, are you?" I ask of him. The dark area under the hat comes into sight as he looks at me.
         "Are you?" he dryly responds.
         "Of course not!" I fire back.
         "Than neither am I," he replies simply. Something about his logic seems foolish, yet familiar. Perhaps it is his voice; that vaguely familiar voice. I cannot quite place my finger on it. Just another thing to chalk up as bothering me about this stranger. I move out of the way and let him inside. No harm done. I direct him toward a chair tucked away in a dim corner, and move to light a fire. One thing I hate about company, I'm always having to light my fire up. As he sits in the chair, I move to throw another couple logs on the embers left in the fire when his voice sounds behind me.
         "No need to throw a log on, I'm fine if you are . . . and I'm sure you are, aren't you?" The confidence of his remark almost causes me to drop the log on my foot. He says it as though he knows exactly how I feel. He couldn't possibly know how much I love the dark. I've never told anyone how much I love the dark. Any normal person would hate the dark. I am normal. I'm not different from anyone. How dare he say that I'm different! How dare he! I turn quickly and throw two more logs on to the embers. Immediately little flames begin to lick the corners of the wood.
         "I know you didn't want to do that," the strange man whispers, "why did you?"
         "I'm not different!" I scream, voice quivering, as I spin around and face the strange man. The blood that has just previously been pounding my temples stops cold. This strange man is staring at me. I cannot see his eyes, but I can feel them. It's an odd kind of stare. I couldn't say how I know because there is no way I could know. No possible way that I could know he was smirking at me. Yet I know. I know and it shakes me as nothing ever has before. With my body trembling lightly, I take the seat opposite my visitor. I can still sense a smirk on his face. I have to change the subject. I have to do something. I have to say something; even a lie would suffice at this point. So I utter the first thing that comes to my mind. "I really hate it when it rains, especially like this," I remark, rather pleasantly I think. In the dim light, it looks at though he cocks his head slightly to the right.
         "You know what I really hate?" he lightly utters, "I really hate liars." If my body was trembling before, now I was shaking so hard I had to hold onto the arms of the chair just so I didn't fall. How could this man possibly know that I was lying? I've never told anyone how much I love the rain. All the while, he's sitting there, safe under his little hat, watching me suffer. I need to see his eyes; I need to. However, I cannot make it known what I desire. If he knows, then he will not oblige. He must not suspect; I must keep my cool.
         "Take . . . your hat off . . . and make yourself . . . at home," I struggle to get the words out amid my heavy shaking. Hopefully he buys it. I need to see his eyes. His head cocks once more, this time very noticeably. He pauses for a moment before responding once more in a calm, cool voice.
         "You really want to see my eyes don't you?" he whispers, "It's eating you up inside, bit by bit. Every second is another tiny step into the scalding fires of your own personal hell, isn't it?" His tone is beginning to get an edge to it. A rough edge that seems so familiar.
         "No . . . I'm fine . . . just wanted . . . You . . . to feel at . . . home." I retort, trying to smile.
         "I am at home" he cryptically shoots back, "You need to see my eyes. You need to know the face of the man who will send you to your grave don't you?" This last statement is all I can handle. I spring up and grab my gun out of the drawer of my desk. I hold up my weapon and point it straight at his face; straight at the dark, all knowing shadow.
         "Take off . . . your . . . hat," I sputter, "You are . . . That . . . serial killer! You . . . lied to . . . me!" The strange man stands up at this and faces me.
         "I would never lie," he smugly mutters, "I hate liars. You know that. In fact, you know everything about me, just as I know everything about you. I know every dark little secret in that tiny little brain of yours-of ours." My hand begins to steady as I realize what he is saying. This man must be the serial killer. He's horribly insane. I even begin to giggle. My giggle grows into squeal, which grows further into a full blown laugh. I feel fairly confident now. I can simply shoot him. I can just say that he broke in, and that I shot in self defense. "No harm done" I'll tell the officers, and they'll laugh. Then I'll finally see his eyes. Just as I pull the trigger back, I confidently mutter something toward my guest.
         "Any last words?" This simple question hangs answerless in the air. Without a sound, my guest begins to take off his trench coat. He's wearing a familiar pair of blue jeans with a pullover sweater, not unlike the one I am wearing right now. This, however, hardly matters in the least because he is about to pull off his hat. Finally I can look into the demented eyes of my nemesis. Into the gateways of a mind sicker than any the world has ever seen. One heartbeat, then another. This can't be. Those eyes are mine. His nose, mine. That grin, that hair, all mine. I wipe at my eyes, trying to make clear what is standing before me. This man is myself; A carbon copy. My laughter is immediately silenced; even the weather seems to have muted itself. Not a sound can be heard while I stare at what could almost be a mirror. I know it's not, but my mind needs something to grasp onto. Something that could explain this.
         "As you can see," he softly mutters, "I know everything about you because I am you. I know that you love the darkness because I do. I know that you love the rain because I do. I also know that you do not want to kill me right now."
         "Of course I want to kill you," I strongly fire back, "You ruined my night. Everything was going great until you showed up."
         "Don't you think that's exactly what Mom and Dad said to each other every night while they were in their room? Everything was going perfect until you showed up. ‘Third times a charm, my ass' Dad would always say when he thought you were out of earshot. They hated you. You were always different. You were always eating crayons, sticking your fingers in your eyes, or playing with yourself. You were and are an embarrassment to me and our family. I am here to make sure it ends tonight." It takes me a moment to digest everything that he said, before I can reply.
         "If you're me...then killing me will kill you too."
         "That's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. You've been a burden on this family for too long. They don't care about your best sellers. They never did. You can never write your way into their hearts. Killing yourself would be the noblest thing you have ever done. They might actually be proud of you for once." I stand frozen. My thoughts are blank. Moments later, a single word pops into my mind.
         "Really?" I whisper incredulously.
         "They will. You'll always remain in their hearts as the problem that fixed itself. They couldn't ever be prouder then they will be when they find out."
         "Proud of me?" I choke, eyes wide.
         "Forever." This last word rings in my ears. All other thoughts drift away. Nothing else matters. Not my work. Not the fire. Not the rain. The only thing that matters now is the gun, inching itself toward my temple. The last thing I remember before I pull the trigger is the feeling of paper in my other hand. An odd time to have a piece of paper, I thought. My body drops to the floor, a pool of blood swimming around my head.
         Two days later, a police car pulls up in front of a small beaten down old house in the middle of the countryside. Two young officers climb out and make their way toward the ajar door. "Send backup to 23421 Manchester Lane, possible breaking and entering," mutters one of the police officers into his shoulder radio. Both officers make their way toward the door and peer inside. The inside is neat and tidy. Nothing seems to be out of place, even to these complete strangers. As they move farther into the house, the second officer calls to his partner.
         "Hey Bill, come check this out." Bill races to his partner and stops dead. Sprawled out on the floor in front of them is a body. Dried blood surrounds the head and the wound is still lightly glistening.
         "Looks like a suicide Joe. Self-inflicted if I ever saw it," mutters Bill. The two officers move around the body, examining from all angles.
         "Yep, self-inflicted gunshot wound to the temple. No doubt about it," Joe concurs. Bill gets on his shoulder radio once more, calling in an medical examiner. While he is doing this, Joe kneels by the side of the body. "Look how this hand is clenched," he remarks, "Seems strange that his hand would be clenched so tightly. This isn't even the hand with the gun." Bill looks down and notices a sharp edge sticking out of his grasp.
         "Take at look at that, Joe. This guy has got a piece of paper in his hand. See if you can get it out, it might be his suicide note." Joe puts on a pair of rubber gloves and attempts to wrangle the paper out of the dead man's hand. Minutes later, two more police cars as well as the medical examiners car pull up outside the house. Upon reaching the door, one of the other policemen calls out to Joe, who is standing staring at a piece of paper.
         "Is that the suicide note?" he asks. Joe does not respond, but continues to stare at the paper. Finally he turns and looks at all the new arrivals, as well as his partner, who has been begging to get a look at the note. Joe lifts his head up and simply reads what is written neatly and calmly on the crumpled up piece of paper.
         "No harm done."