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Mittoo -> Cracked Mirrors, a short story (4/23/2009 6:01:08)
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The scream. Always the scream.
Aaron felt the terrified sound come unbidden, a vestige of a still unknown dream that his body reacted to even after all this time. A touch to the forehead brought an explanation for the moisture that soaked the sheets, and a glance to the left brought the pointless exercise of hoping that the time was different from what it inevitably showed. Aaron could swear that a sly grin, a mocking tone, accompanied the display. Fool. Do you expect it to be anything other than 3:15?
Lying back into the night was a pointless activity; all it would do is waste time while he attempted – and failed – to discern what always left him at this time. The sound of rain drumming outside formed a staccato rhythm that he could almost predict by now; it formed a crude system of timing, for the clock had frozen with the first scream, as if the noise had held some sort of supernatural quality.
Aaron planted his feet on the wooden floor, letting the familiar jolt of cold seep through him: it was one of the few sensations he could truly feel now. An exhalation forced its way from his mouth, a mixture of resignation and fatigue: his body was no more exhausted than you might expect from an early-morning awakening, but his mind had a weariness that was far beyond his twenty-nine years.
He crossed over to the window, to the curtains that might as well not be there; it was not the light from the dying vestiges of a lamp-post that was keeping him awake. The rain seemed to become louder as he flung the blackout curtains apart, as if they somehow sensed an audience and reacted accordingly. Rays of light from the ‘post penetrated the thick darkness of the room, ricocheting from the mirror and invading Aaron’s eyes. The figure that appeared in that silvered glass seemed to be nothing like the man who stared back at it: tired bags sagged under eyes that had lost their gleam, a dull glance framed by ragged auburn hair, a dark brown weed growing from his scalp. He raised his arms to his face once more, clearing the last vestiges of sweat and simultaneously staring morosely at the two flesh-coloured sticks that masqueraded as his arms. A photograph, faded with age, lay cello taped in a failed attempt to cover the deep crack along the length of the mirror.
Unbidden, an image arose. The photo’ seemed to come alive as the woman frozen in time gave a smile only shared between lovers. Aaron returned the gesture, but his eyes betrayed the sadness that prevented the twisting of his mouth ever being construed as a happy motion. A flash of memory struck him like lightning, causing close to physical pain as the dream from which he had abruptly awoken crawled into his skull.
No. Not now. Any time but now.
As the passage of time for those before their death, Aaron felt a lifetime cross past him in a few moments. A happier lifetime. Sensations invaded his mind, too many to catalogue or count. The moment of aversion as sunlight bounced off silky blonde hair. The smile that could stop a man’s heart. The touch, defying the cold that surrounded bodies so close they may as well have been one. A name leaked from his subconscious and exited his mouth before he could exercise any sort of control.
“Cecilia.”
Once never spoken without warmth, or happiness, the name seemed clinical as it escaped from his vocal chords. All that remained of the woman now was faded memories and faded photographs, a pale imitation of a living, breathing love. This crude time, far from night and yet far from the dawn, was the only time she would be there. He wondered whether…No. That leads down a path down which I do not wish to travel. Not for anyone. Another sigh escaped. He was destined either to never remember the face on the cracked mirror, losing sleep on a dream he could never recall, or go into uncertainty: a dangerous road, at best. Likely what lead to these morning awakenings in the first place.
He wanted – needed – this day to be different. Something was clearly important to break through even the reverie he had created for himself. Someone wanted to show themselves shown to him so badly that they were prepared to pull him from the sweet oblivion of sleep at this exact hour so that he remembered. Spoken commitments, sympathies, were all meaningless to him, without context. This day, he decided, he would break this un-natural trend. This day, he decided, he would see beyond the face in the cracked mirror, the smile and the touch that formed all he knew of a woman special enough to break through his amnesia.
With careful, deliberate steps, Aaron crossed to one of the cupboards. The sterile stench wafting from the cedar wood caused him to pause for a moment, his nostrils wrinkling in distaste, but he pressed on – if such a verb can describe his excruciatingly slow placing of one foot an inch or two in front of the other – towards a place he had mentally marked untouchable since the nightmares began, but why he decided that was as much of a mystery as the dream was. He almost wanted to turn back, to fall back onto the comfort of the bed and pretend the oblivious comfort of sleep would accommodate him this night, as it had failed every other day before this. His arm reached for the handle...and paused. Something, as solid as a wall between his hand and the wood, was fighting this: the same call to return to bed arose, but this time it was almost overpowering in its insistence. Doubts seemed to form themselves unbidden, leaking into his thoughts and, like the imp hovering over a cartoon character’s shoulder, whispered doubts. You’ll find nothing in there but the dreams that haunt you already. Why even bother?
Aaron paused again, for what seemed like a lifetime. Sweat formed on his forehead again as his outstretched hand inched closer to the wooden prison of his memory. The fingers wrapped around, the grip tightening with apprehension. Another pause...and then the doors flung open as if of their own accord.
Oh, God, the smell.
As if released from the confines of the cupboard, the memories flooded out, like the wafts of lavendar perfume that adorned the dresses and blouses hanging like damned men, and assaulted Aaron’s thoughts. The face of the cracked mirror gained a body, a laugh, a grin...a death. A lifetime flashed by in a few moments, and he found it almost overloading in its sheer volume. The dresses, hats, and sunglasses all linked to their own specific encounters. Barbeques in the sun, laughter in the evenings and a call in the morning. I’m sorry, but your wife was driving and...there was an accident. From, if not blissful, then protective ignorance, came the mourning for a death that had happened years prior. Aaron's dead eyes welled up with pools of saltwater - he couldn't even cry them for them to be called tears - and he staggered back to the bed. The clock glanced back at him with what he took to be respectful silence: he grabbed it with a yell and threw it away, where it crashed to the floor and lay silent. Breathing heavily with the exertion, he let his body fall back on the mattress, until the soft morning assaulted the ragged silhouette once more.
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