Thursday, August 12, 2010

Mirror Image

The first time I saw him, his face was pounded in. It was nothing more than bits of bone and flesh and a pool of blood. He was beautiful in his way, a masterpiece of the grotesque, but he wasn’t my type, so I ignored him. He croaked like a toad and gargled fluids.

The next time I saw him, he looked much better. His face had mostly healed. Scars crisscrossed his cheeks and forehead. Yet, his skin was a bit too pale and swollen, unnaturally so, almost like a mushroom. I thought if I touched his face that my hand would sink right in, leaving an impression, like a mushy foam pillow or something. He smiled at me, and I shuddered. I didn’t like the way he looked. Not at all.

The last time I saw him. He was immobile. He was still. He was dead, or at the least, he was dying. A pool of blood originating from a slit neck spread outwards around his head like a strange, gory halo.

My mirror fell forward and shattered into a million reflections. I never knew his name, but at that moment, I knew he meant everything.

5 comments:

  1. This had such a heavy, creepy mood. Nice.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Dude. Weird. Creepy.

    All I can think of at the moment is Lovecraft's "cold and unyielding surface of polished glass"--except where his piece is over-the-top and eminently mockable, yours is subtly scary, gore notwithstanding.

    Excellent addition to this week's round of Friday Flash stories.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Thanks everyone!

    Travis - You know, I didn't think about it at the time, but this story does share some similarities in theme with "The Outsider."

    ReplyDelete