Reflections

         I stare in the mirror and he stares back, he always does. The gaunt features, the stubble, the smoke curling from the tip of a cigarette, it was all the same. I know better though. I know what he is and because I know, I'm sure he does too.  He's me after all, not in body or spirit but certainly in mind.
        “Yeah, live it up you bastard, I’ll get you yet,” is all I can think to say. There was nobody in the small New York apartment to impress anyway, nobody but him and me. Pulling away from the body length mirror that was affixed to the outside of my bathroom door I look around my home. Newspapers are piled in the corners, mouldering and yellow with the humidity that threatened to choke the very life from the cramped building. A trolley bell rings from the street eight stories below though I can’t see it; Large planks of wood cover every window in the place. I miss the fresh air of open windows and the sight of mid-afternoon sunshine glinting off the panes, but I can’t risk it.
        “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I say to myself, thinking of the reflections in those very same panes of glass. He was in there too and I can’t risk it. I can’t risk him getting out. I won’t risk it. I have other mirrors, but like the windows I had covered those when I’d learned the truth. My bed is bare but my covers serve a far more important role as they hang draped over every mirror in the small apartment. I could have smashed them but I couldn’t risk missing a piece, god knows how small a piece they would need to get through. I need the bathroom mirror intact though. I have to keep an eye on him. I have to make sure he doesn’t get up to anything. I look at it again, he’s still there looking back as if he were doing the same thing. He was waiting for me to let my guard down, waiting to come through.
        Stubbing my cigarette out I can’t help but grin, hoping he was as desperate as I am. I know he’s getting there. I'll win though, he can’t beat me. The stained yellow walls of my apartment stare with me. Patches of moistness seep through the flimsy plaster as if the walls themselves are weeping. The heat is undeniable. It’s summer and here, in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and fifty five, I'm saving the world.
        I know people don’t understand what I’m doing. When I quit my job they’d asked me why and I’d told them, they thought I’d been joking; idiots. They see their reflections every day and think it’s just them in the mirror. Why? When you see people walking down the street, even if they look like you, you don’t assume it’s you. With mirrors though, you see your exact duplicate looking back and you ignore it. Not me though, no, I know better. They want our world, they want our air, they want our food, and they want our lives. I’m going to stop them though; I just need to get past him. He’s the only one that can stop me.
        The cigarette slides smoothly from the package, the last one. I’d have to get more. Going out was risky though and I haven’t done it for days. He could get out. Harriet! She would get me more cigarettes. I move to the phone and lift it slowly from the receiver. The mirror is out of view so I’m not worried, he can’t see me and he doesn’t know what I’m up to, not yet anyway. The phone rings and my last cigarette burns down slowly. The sweet acrid smell of the smoke is my only relief from the dank, sweaty, repulsiveness of the air in my apartment. I’ve grown used to it though; I almost enjoy it. It smells like me, the real me. I can’t know myself from how I look, he’s seen to that. This smell, this repugnance, that’s all me and he can’t take that away no matter how hard he tries. The phone is still ringing as I bask in my drifting self-conception, though I don’t know how long until I lose that sense of self completely.
        “Hello?” the ringing gives way to the sweet sound of Harriet’s voice.
        “It’s Frank, baby. I need something.” My reply is short. I don’t want to give too much away; she’s already worried about me. I don’t blame her. I can’t let her know what’s happening though; he might use her against me. I know I’d use her against him if I could.
        “Oh, Frank! Are you all right, honey? Are you ok? What do you need? I can come right over!” I can hear the relief in her voice. It’s the first time I’ve called her since I’d thrown her out of my apartment a week earlier. She’d been crying then but I didn’t care, I still don’t; it’s for her own good and I’ll be damned if I get her mixed up in all of this.
        “Yeah dolly, I’m fine; floating on cloud nine. I’m just running low on smokes. You mind? I’m pretty busy over here.” I can hear the silence on the other end. Maybe I was wrong, maybe she wouldn’t come. “We can talk.” I add. I don’t mean it and maybe she knows that.
        “Alright, Frank. I’ll be right over.” She replies. I had her.
        “Thanks babydoll.”
        I set the phone down with a soft click. It would be a little while before she got here and I had nothing to do but sit and watch him. I take a seat on my bed and stare across the barren wasteland of my apartment. Dirty dishes and sweat stained clothes are piled up here and there like tumbleweeds waiting to blow across some dusty ghost town’s main strip. I’m losing it. I just have to hope he cracks first. The bastard sits there staring back at me, mocking me.
        “Laugh it up, Buck-o.” the cigarette hangs out of my mouth and slurs my words a bit but I know he hears me. Minutes pass, or maybe hours, maybe seconds; the steady hum of the light bulbs burning away all around the apartment don’t help. With no windows I don’t know what time it is. I don’t even have a clock. That fake electrical daylight is the only light I know now, it’s the only light I need. I leave them on all day and all night. I fear the darkness because in the darkness he holds free reign to do as he pleases, so I leave the lights on. My eyes burn with the need for sleep and the cold pot of coffee sitting on my stove becomes the focus of my attention.
        It’s while I’m getting myself another cup of coffee that the knock at the door comes. I nearly drop the mug and I look towards the mirror, no, he’s still there looking back. He was getting coffee as well. Good. Rot you bastard because if I can’t sleep then neither can you.
        “Who is it?” my voice is harsh, my tone harsher.
        “It’s me, Frank. I brought your cigarettes. Please open the door.” It’s Harriet’s voice on the other side and a part of me sighs in relief even as another part tenses up with fear. I move to the door and after an anguishing moment of doubt, I open it. She’s happy to see me, at least until she sees me properly.
        “Frank, my God… what’ve you done to yourself?” Her eyes water and I know she’s about to cry. I hate it when she cries, I could never stand it. I take the pack of cigarettes held in one of her pale, limp hands.
        “Just a bit hung-over, that’s all.” I answer lamely. I know she doesn’t buy it but I also know she won’t call me on it. She stands in front of me, a foot and a half shorter but looking ready to bowl me over if I try to keep her out of my apartment. I wonder if she can smell it, if she can smell me. “Come in.” I finally add.
        She waltzes in and immediately I can see the horror in her eyes. I ignore it; what could she say to make me care anyway? I slide one of the cigarettes from the fresh pack as the smell of the fresher air wafting in from the hallway almost sickens me now. The door closes with a slam and I turn to face Harriet, a simple flick of my wrist drawing fire from my lighter as I lift it to light the tip of the fresh smoke held in my lips.
        “You’ve finally lost it, aintcha Frank?” she says as she turns to me. I smile a little from behind the thin veil of smoke my cigarette releases into the air.
        “’course not, Harriet. I’m still all here, I’m just doing a little redecorating.”
        “But Frank, why’re all the—
        “Are you writing a goddamn book, Harriet? What’s with all the questions?” I cut her off, not wanting to answer her question properly. It works. I can see it in her eyes; she’s going to back down. “I’ve just been busy; I haven’t had a chance to clean up yet.” I try to drive the stake right through her heart before she can bring herself to ask any more questions. I can see her eyes water again, maybe it’s the smell.
        “I’m worried about ya, Frank. You ain’t been around lately. Y’er boss said you quit y’er job and you haven’t talked to me ‘cept to ask me to bring ya more smokes. You ain’t right, Frank.” She’s ready to cry but I’m not ready to deal with it right now.
        “Listen baby, I’m just having a bit of a rough patch.” I soften my tone; I’m pretty good at pretending I gave a shit. “Take a seat, have a smoke and you’ll see; I’m right as rain.” I even smile; damn I’m good at this. Harriet obliges, crossing one leg over the other as she sits on the end of my bare bed. I hand her the cigarette and as she takes it I notice something’s wrong right away. She grabs the smoke with her left hand and brings it to her trembling lips; still all weepy eyed and looking for me to do something about the unlit cigarette.
        “Baby, I thought you were right handed.”
        “What?”
        “Aren’t you right handed?” She pauses as I say this.
        “Yeah. Why?” she sounds unsure; her voice falters. I don’t need to ask her anything else. The feel of her throat in my hands is all I need to know now and when my fingers close around them she doesn’t put up much of a fight. Her feet kick, her eyes widen and her hands beat at my chest. I don’t stop.
        “I don’t think our relationship is going to survive this, babydoll.” I say to her gently even as my grip tightens. Her face changes color slowly and as I choke the life from her, I can’t help but feel a twinge of regret. What if I’m wrong? What if she was right and I just needed help? No. I couldn’t think like that, I wouldn’t. The feeble mewls escaping her spit covered lips begin to quiet as I finish the deed; those red lips practically beg for one last kiss. I don’t deny her that. When she’s gone, I let her fall back on my bed. Her golden hair splays around her head like an angel’s halo; I know this one’s no angel though.
        Cigarette still resting between her lips I pluck it free and look her over as I do. It’s time. I crack open my lighter and pour the remaining fuel onto the newspapers in the corner. I had a plan and if it didn’t work I may as well die now anyway. He got to Harriet and without her, I won’t last long alone in this apartment. The walls seem to close in on me as if they know what I’m going to do to them.
        “Here’s looking at you, kid.” I say to the cooling body on my bed, I remember that flick. I was fourteen when I’d seen it and Bogart’s famous line seems like the only thing left to say. Another flick of my wrist and the papers are burning. My half-smoked cigarette hits the fuel dead on; the walls would go up soon too. I stare at the flames, they grow and spread as they devour everything they touch. It was time to go.
        As the wall behind me goes up and smoke fills the room I turn back to the mirror. I can see the flames, the smoke, Harriet’s body, the yellow walls, the dirty clothes and even the mug of coffee but I don't see him. I smile as I step up to the mirror. It seems the bastard has some brains after all; his apartment is going up just the same as mine but he hasn't stuck around. I reach out for the mirror and as my hand passes through it I feel the hot, humid air of his apartment. When my face presses through I can’t help but laugh, it doesn’t smell like me at all over here.

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Word Count: 2265