242 lines
14 KiB
Plaintext
242 lines
14 KiB
Plaintext
______ ______ ______________
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\ / \ / ____ \ ______|
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| |________| | / \ | |____
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| ________ | ( {} ) | _____)
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/~~~~~~~~~~~ | | | | \____/ | |______ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~\
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| |~~~~~~~ / \ / \ / | ~~~~~~~~~| |
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| | |______| |______| /_____________| | |
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| | ...Hogs of Entropy Text Files Present... | |
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| | "The Other Side of the Mirror" | |
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| | By: Black Sunshine | |
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\ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ /
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Charles Mullins awoke with the knowledge of what he had to do. He smiled
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at the memory of the dream he'd just had; everything had been perfect. Too
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perfect...
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Sweat coated his arms lightly and he shivered, though he'd gone to bed in
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a t-shirt and jeans. He sat up in the dark and swung his legs over the side
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of the bed.
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Can I really do it?
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He stood up and was immediately overcome with a sense of unfamiliarity.
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Where am I?
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That was always his first thought upon awakening. Even nine years ago,
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when he'd been ten, he could remember waking up in the dead of night, safe in
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his own bed, with his mother snoring softly in the other bedroom, and he
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would wonder where he was, who he was. At first, the answer would not come
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to him.
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His dreams were the only place that seemed real to him, the only place
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where he had an identity. When he awoke, that identity would cease to exist.
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He had come to the conclusion that he was living out the wrong life, that
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someone somewhere else was trapped in his life, and thinking the very same
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thing. Lately, it had become difficult for Charlie to tell the difference
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between fantasy and reality.
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He wiped the sweat from his forehead and crept silently down the dark hall
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into the kitchen. He opened the drawer under the counter and withdrew the
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largest knife he could find-- not a butcher knife, but it would do the job.
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He held the blade up to examine it. It glittered in the moonlight that
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filtered in through the cheap curtains covering the kitchen window. He
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looked at the clock above the stove: 4:28 AM.
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Charlie crept back around the corner and down the hall to his mother's
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bedroom. She was snoring softly.
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Can I really do it?
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He could see her in the moonlight, her old, thin body twisted under the
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sheet. He could do nothing but stare at her for perhaps five minutes and
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remember.
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His hate consumed him.
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He lowered the knife until the blade was resting under her chin. Power
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filled him and adrenaline rushed through his body. His knife hand twitched
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in anticipation.
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"Bitch," he whispered.
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She opened her eyes.
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He gasped and jerked, running the blade smoothly into her flesh. Blood
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leaked out from between the wound, and her mouth froze in a mockery of an
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incessant scream.
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The it was over. In shock, Charlie reached over and flipped on the
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overhead light. There was no doubt that she was dead.
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He raised the knife to gaze at the red serum gathering at the tip, as if
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that alone was going to provide the evidence he needed to affirm that he had
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just killed his mother. More of the power throbbed within him, sending a
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surge of adrenaline to every appendage on his body.
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He couldn't bring himself to let go of the knife yet.
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He stumbled across the room to the bathroom, meaning to wash his hands.
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Tiny beads of sweat had reappeared on his face, and stained his shirt around
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the armpits. His t-shirt--
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"I can't wear this!" he suddenly cried out, frantically. Crimson
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splatters adorned it as if they'd purposely been printed on it.
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He started to take off the shirt before he remembered that his mother
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wouldn't like it if he paraded around the house without a shirt on.
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But then he remembered that she was dead.
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A new feeling of freedom and relief filled him, and a tear slid down his
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cheek where it mingled with the sweat.
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She's dead! I'm free! Isn't she? Yes. Forever. For good. She's dead.
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I'm free. Is she really dead? Yes, I think so. Is she? Yes. Is she?
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Yes. Is she?
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He tried to shift his mind away from the painful memories--all the days
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and nights of being locked in the dark hall closet alone with no food or
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hours. He would cry and beg for hours.
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Mommy please let me out because it's dark and cold and dirty in here, and
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i can hear the bugs crawling in the walls and feel them creeping up my legs
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and i'm scared it's dark mommy and i'm scared of the dark please let me out
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of here i'm sorry i'm so sorry...
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There were three main waves that affected him in those dark and dismal
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hours he spent in the closet: the hunger wave, the thirst wave and the
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bathroom wave. Soon the three blended into one raw, searing need to continue
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life.
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It became difficult for him to tell night from day; it was all the same to
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him, those blurry hours in the closet. So he slept when he felt like it,
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which was most of the time. He would awake to the never-ending darkness and
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the gnawing hunger in his stomach and unrelieved pressure in his bladder.
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This was where his line between fantasy and reality had begun to blur.
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Those many dark hours seemed dreamlike, yet at the same time, were very real.
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How much time was he actually in the closet? Did it matter?
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Hours melted into days.
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Then his mother would open the closet door one morning, like a mirage or
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some kind of angel coming to rescue him, and grab him up, shivering and
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faint, into her arms.
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"Got to pay," she'd whisper in his ear, as she fed him warm chicken soup
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and gave him cold milk to drink. "Your father sinned when he brought you
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into this world against my will. Men are evil. There's something in a man
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that's cold and hard, something that makes him cruel. Unfortunately, men
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were blessed with the ability to hide their ulterior motives until it's too
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late to see them. You will one day grow into a man. Say you're sorry."
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"I'm sorry," Charlie would say without hesitation, and truly, he was,
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because he didn't know any better.
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"Are you really?" she glared down at him and narrowed her eyes
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suspiciously.
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"Yes, mommy, I am."
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But like the hours in the closet that melted into days, the months in his
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life dwindled slowly into years. Charlie began to seek out what female
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companionship had been missing in his life from the girls he met at school.
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But when he was repeatedly shunned, he came to realize that men were not the
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evil ones. Women were the cold, hard, cruel ones. Women were the ones with
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hidden intentions.
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His speculation and fear had turned to hate over the past year. He began
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to detest the entire female gender. Fuck them. He didn't need any of them,
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especially now.
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Charlie wiped the tears from his face and stepped into the bathroom. He
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finally allowed himself to let go of the knife, laying it on the edge of the
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sink. He ran his hands under the warm water, letting the blood trickle down
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the drain. As he did so, he stared into the mirror at his reflection.
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Something about his face was different.
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Charlie dried his hands quickly and began to stare hard at the mirror,
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bringing his face closer to it, turning it first left, then right. He had
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always had a slightly handsome, yet rugged face, blonde shoulder-length hair
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and dark brown eyes. He was a pale man, though, and had always been very
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thin. He was only five foot seven, and knew he wasn't going to get any
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taller.
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He ran his hand down his cheek, scratching at his razor stubble, and
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frowned.
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What is it?
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He couldn't put his finger on it. At first. Then it dawned on him.
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The change he was seeing was an internal one. His appearance hadn't
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changed, he had. He'd had a taste of the power, the blood; he had crossed
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over the line, and something inside of him knew there was no going back.
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He stared harder into the mirror, searching for himself, as he had always
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done.
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Who am I? Am I bad because I killed her?
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Yes. It was wrong.
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Then why am I so relieved? How can it feel so right? Why do I feel so
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powerful?
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He gazed into his own eyes, and realized they had become the eyes of a
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stranger. It wasn't even him.
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He reached out to touch the cold, reflective glass, but instead felt warm,
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calloused fingers-- his own. He laid his palm flat against his reflection's,
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his gaze locked with himself.
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Enough of this. How far can this go?
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He closed his eyes and plunged into the reflection. He felt himself
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sinking into the pit of his inner self. The walls were tall and the entrance
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was narrow and there wasn't any light.
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Utter blackness surrounded him, enveloped him, began to suffocate him.
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The emptiness deeply saddened and confused him, before he realized that he
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was taking a glimpse of his own soul.
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If you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you...
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His soul was totally empty. The pit of nothingness seemed to extend on
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forever, yet at the same time, seemed to be closing in on him, trapping him.
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...the abyss gazes also into you...
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That was when Charlie began to scream--
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--mommy it's dark and cold in here and i'm scared so please let me out i'm
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sorry i'm afraid of the dark it's so dark and dirty in here so dark please
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please please let me out--
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And suddenly, he was out, back in the face of his own reflection. Charlie
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and his image questioned and probed each other with their eyes: Who are you?
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What are you doing in me? Why have you violated me this way?
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Charlie's hand was still flat against his reflection's, and now he removed
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it and rubbed the fingertips together.
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Then with one quick motion, he pushed his fingertips into the mirror, into
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the unknown beyond. His fingers felt suddenly numb. The reflection's
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fingers had pushed their way through to his side.
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Stunned, Charlie pulled his hand away as a tingling sensation pulsated in
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his fingers. He stared at his hand for a minute, his reflection mimicking
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the action. He then raised his head to stare at himself for one awed
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instant.
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Then, without thinking, Charlie thrust his arm into the mirror up to his
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elbow. His reflection simultaneously did the same.
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Charlie wanted to go into the mirror, for there was where he knew he would
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find himself. He would finally know himself, and know where he belonged.
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However, when he tried to plunge his other arm through, it just wouldn't go.
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The arm that was branching out of the mirror from his side maneuvered
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slowly towards the knife that Charlie had laid by the faucets while he washed
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his hands.
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Charlie saw this and jerked his arm out of the mirror, expecting his
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reflection to do the same, but it didn't.
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The fingers of his reflection's hand closed around the handle of the knife
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and brought it slowly, slowly to Charlie's chest.
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He gazed at his face in the mirror, and at that moment, he understood. He
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knew that was where he wanted to be, and that this was how he could get
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there.
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"Do it," Charlie whispered to himself. The reflection did not hesitate.
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He drove the cold blade deep into Charlie's heart. Charlie gasped, filled
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with the worst pain he ever knew and ever would again. His eyes glowed with
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the agony, but he didn't back away or feel remorse. He was dying, but
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somehow he wasn't. He was just beginning to live.
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When at last Charlie's eyes closed involuntarily with death and his heart
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ceased to beat, the reflection's arm pulled the knife out of him and let him
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fall to the floor.
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And finally, Charlie was on the other side of the mirror. He was the
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reflection. He dissolved into nothing.
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"Matricide," said Officer Larry Holden, surveying the grim scene with
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indifferent eyes. " ...and suicide."
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The sight was enough to turn him away after only a few seconds of
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observation. As he did, something caught his eye.
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What is it?
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Something about the way Mullins was lying caused Holden to question the
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integrity of his report. He finally realized it was the guy's hands. He was
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gripping something--tight--in his right hand.
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Holden pried the object from Charlie's hand, cringing in disgust. It was
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a piece of paper, folded until it was about the size of a quarter.
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Curiously, Holden unfolded it, smoothing the edges.
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Creasing his eyebrows, Holden read it, then reread it, then read it a
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third time. When the hell did he have time to write this? Holden looked
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once again at the body at his feet.
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"Did I really kill myself? Isn't an image in a mirror just a reflection
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of the real thing? Is it suicide when your reflection, your inner self, is
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finally found? Is it suicide when only one part of you wants to be dead? Is
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it possible for your mind and your soul to be at battle with one another?
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Maybe, maybe not. Who can say, when a reflection of something in your past
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returns to haunt you, whether that reflection is you, or just a part of you?
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I guess you could say that I'm saved now. I'm found. Do people ever really
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find themselves? Do they ever really know what's on the other side of the
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mirror?"
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There the letter abruptly stopped. Holden glanced at the body once more,
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then at the note, then at the mirror above the sink.
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Something about his face was different.
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|=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=|
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| _____ Call Goat Blowers Anonymous for the LATEST HOE! _____ |
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| 6/ ^..^ (215) 750 - 0392 ^..^ \9 |
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| \_____(oo) This Issues Featured Support Board is: (oo)_____/ |
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| WW WW Paranoid Delusions WW WW |
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|=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=|
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Copyright (c) 1995 HoE Publications, Souls at Zero, & Black Sunshine. #77-5/1
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All rights Reserved. Original edit from SaZ.
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