Glimmering

In front of Trip, his jeweled shadow stood poised on one foot, head cocked as its blue eyes burned into the singer’s. The mask was gone, and the towering golden crown. The face that stared adoringly at him was Trip’s own: Trip’s strong jaw shaved of blond stubble, the cleft in his chin more pronounced, the scar left by a childhood fall smoothed away. Light settled into the hollows of its cheeks. Trip’s mouth parted as he tentatively reached to stroke the long hair that fell across the icon’s brow. As he did, the icon raised its hand, its astonished expression mirroring Trip’s own. Their fingers met in the glittering air, a shimmer of flesh and flame; but Trip’s hand closed on nothing. His heart jolted with disappointment, but his face was still there gazing at him with wide blue eyes. The tip of a crimson tongue flicked across its lips, left them gleaming like the moist curve of an apple. He could see the rayed petals of its irises, its skin smooth and unmarred by pores or scars but with a sheen like sweat. Overwhelmed, a little frightened, Trip sank to the floor. The icon didn’t move. Its eyes remained fixed on Trip, its hands extended imploringly.

Trip sucked in air, his heart pounding dangerously fast. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. From where he sat he had a rather intimidating view of his double: it was naked, and it had an erection. The body mirrored Trip’s own, its slender torso plucked of the few stray hairs that always embarrassed Trip because there weren’t more of them. Its legs were smooth and muscular, and its arms. Its cock seemed no larger or smaller than Trip’s own, which was somehow disconcerting, as was the fact that as he stared at it, Trip found himself growing hard. But he couldn’t look away. His heart fluttered as it had when he’d been with the blond girl. His breath came in shallow gasps; he felt the same swooping vertiginous sensation as of flying or falling, the same insane realization that somehow this was his life, this was happening, this was real—

“Hey.” It spoke to him, and he shuddered. His own tentative voice, the inflection questioning, half-fearful; shy. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath; opened them: he was still there. “You okay?”

Trip nodded. The motion made him dizzy. The icon extended its hand and touched his cheek. Trip’s shudder became a low moan, but he didn’t move away, just sat there as the shining boy leaned forward and cupped Trip’s face in his hands. “Don’t be afraid…”

Something in its voice slashed through Trip’s fear. A slight warbling, the barest hint of an echo that gave the voice a faintly mechanical quality. It was enough to remind Trip that what was before him was neither mirror nor memory but only his own borrowed mien. It was enough, momentarily, to break the spell.

“No.” Trip’s voice cracked. Somehow that made him feel better, more sure of himself, more sure that he was himself; because surely the icon’s voice wouldn’t break? He remembered that Leonard Thrope had given him a drug, remembered that he was in a room, and there were other people there, even if he couldn’t see them. He looked around, saw only jagged rays of light and darkness, a glowing blue square. In front of him the icon crouched, blond hair falling in a bright wave across one eye.

“‘Thou art beside thyself; much learning doth make thee mad, ’” it recited. “‘Thou hast created all things, and for Thy pleasure they are and were created. ’”

Trip’s tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. He tried to whisper No, but the word died in his throat.

“‘For in Thee we live, and move, and have our being; as certain also of your own poets have said; For we are also his offspring.’”