The Pocket Mirror

It begins with a remembrance. Remembrance of long lost deeds that never came to light. The rage, the fear, the pity, that tell the honest lie. With the hate that pilfer from the love. 

It was that budding hate that brought me here. It was that budding love that hence bought me. Lenience and love. Decadence and denial. Vice and virtue. — A completely illogical excerpt from the madman that Erik read from.

Little Erik kept the cracked pocket mirror in his closet. For the pain that came and the pain that left, the crack never disappeared.

“Why should the couple have cared anyways?”

With ignorance came happiness.

The crack was his own fault really. When the couple beat him, they repaid with love, and with their love, they balanced it with strong animosity.

“Whose fault was it really, who first acquiesced to the pain?”

Erik never looked in the mirror ever since then, for a single sight of his dad’s grotesque face behind him when he was using it one time was enough reason not to use it any further.

And with that sadistic face, Erik’s dad slammed the door shut from the outside.

His mom enjoyed punishing his dad.

“The family’s vice?”

They carried on night after night. They both bathed quietly, enraptured by the other’s screams, relishing in the imaginary masochism of their partner.

“They laughed.”

Her cackling laughter would always reverberate along the hallway.

No one knew the other’s shamefulness and submission. None knew their own guilt.

Never did they try to acknowledge anything.

Was it really hate that drove them?

They were filthy rich. Erik could tell you that. Near any likeliness of a top official, and nowhere near a hole of a thieving wretch.

The pressure was always on their shoulders, to uplift their parent’s faces, and burden themselves with valuable knowledge.

And so his sister bathed in the cries of her parents. In her own imaginary masochistic reality. That was her paradise.

They were in the basement. Where various torture kept him and his sister both alive and dead. To the point where he could only derive entertainment from talking to himself.

“Why?” He asked.

“Because,” His sister replied.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“So it is.”

Erik remembered that one time, under the dark and stormy night, he crept out of bed and watched the streets from his second floor bedroom window without a wink of sleep.

Dad had told him his mom was coming back late. Something about having been in an argument with her boss and staying overnight for her extended job while leaving the next morning for a business trip.

Mom was always busy.

Little sister said that was a bunch of baloney, and just ate dinner before going to bed. Erik heard her sobbing from the other side of the wall.

Dad also noted that the basement was under construction, so he told them to not go down there.

Curiosity got the better of Erik. He snickered at his sister. Curiosity never took ahold of her after all.

Erik stole the keys from the kitchen, and ran down a flight of stairs in their three-storied house.

“Ker-chunk” went the rusty key, and down the rabbit’s hole he go.

It was dark. Erik would admit that. Then from the darkness, he heard the soft whimpering of a dog. Opening it a bit more showed a dog on all fours, chained to the wall.

Then “bam!” went the door. Erik faced the wooden door, not daring to move a muscle.

“Now what did I tell you Erik?”

Oh. It was his dad. Erik silently breathed a sigh of relief.

“Dad,” Erik questioned, “why was there a dog in our basement?”

“I picked it up earlier. This little dear girl could have had rabies. Which was why I told you guys not to come near the basement. This bitc-”

His dad slapped Erik on the face. But stopped. He was seemingly shocked by his own movement.

After a moment of silence, he regained his composure and gave Erik some things to do.

Erik silently drooped his head and walked back towards his room.

For all the times that he could remember this scene, he never understood why there was a quivering girl chained to the ground, gagged with a bloody towel, and lying down without the thighs in her legs.

Until he was 5, this smart kid’s loyalty and dedication to his family never wavered. It was a gorgeous family in his and everyone else’s eyes, save for the rest of his family.

Erik never saw his mom since that day, but dad let him talk with her on the phone a lot. Some months ago, dad even came back bruised up. He heard his mom brutally raped his dad.

Erik never bothered to open his eyes anyways. His handcrafted blindfold was just lovely. Silky smooth, and a gateway to a place away from frustration. White. Cleanly washed from a clear puddle of water by the side of the road. The darkness was a place where he could see his little sister’s taunting smirk along with his own little smile.

One day, he was kept awake by a deafening screech that resonated continuously. Erik was scorched by the blood of his parents that rained down from the floor above. Tainted too by the contorted face of a dead puppy without thighs that laid in a now open hole. It was like the entire thigh section from both legs were cut off, and the remaining pair of legs were sewed on to it’s respective place. He stroked the bare back of this furless and tail-less female dog that looked so much like his late mother.

Looking back, he saw his sister, unscratched, holding a towel, and naked from her clothes being ripped apart by the initial shockwaves. She was unstuck from the attic. She reached out, grabbed his hand, and they both ran off into the sunrise. One with pyjamas, and the other without clothes.

Erik knelt on the cracked tarmac and sobbed amongst the ruins just once more while he and his sisters panted and waited for breath.

“Mum…Mummy? Daddy? W-Wh-Wh… Why?”

His sister’s body was embraced by the inner decorations of her father with his splattered red dyes plastered her nude body. She licked her bloody lips with swift eagerness, savouring the last of her childhood.

During the night, a figure crept back to the dead man. On his chest, the figure lit five matches for the sky lantern the figure held. Soundless night. Starless night. The figure thought back to days where the moon could still be seen. The sky was empty that night.

Was it even night at all?

Surrounded by ruins and the stench of decomposing bodies, the figure lit the candle within the lantern. For a second, it exposed the light scars on the figure’s cheek. The pink absorbing fleshiness. The scars of the figure’s smile. As a distant bell rang, the figure lets go of the paper lantern. The lantern that held a shiny but defected pocket mirror.

In the end, in the midst of darkness, he smiles his then plastic smile. All was the past in his then plastic world. So the clock was allowed to chime 13.

All in the mind of a blind young boy.

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