MirrorWorld

Failing to find a clean glass, she opted for a mug. Filled it to the top. She stared down at the chipped pottery. A gift from her husband. Her reflection in the deep purple liquid looked distorted and ugly, despite her bright blue eyes, high cheekbones, and lips framed by dimples. As a strong sense of fear crept back into her gut, she lifted the mug to her lips, sneering at the flavor the way her son did with cold medicine. Squeezing her cheeks together to prevent the bitter liquid from striking the sides of her tongue, she swallowed a mouthful. Then another. After taking a deep breath, she downed half the mug.

It was all she could handle. She shook her head in disgust, put the mug down, and turned to the clock.

Tick, tick, tick.

As the alcohol warmed her stomach, she felt her limbs relax.

“Your turn,” she said to the clock.

She dragged her black rocking chair beneath the clock, which was mounted just beyond her short reach. Simon would be taller than her in the next year or two. By the time he was a teen, he would tower over her. Unsteady on her tiptoes, she caught the clock and lifted it away from the wall. Back on her heels, she turned the clock around, unclipped the plastic battery case, and removed a single AA battery.

“There.” She reached up, lifting the clock back to its high perch.

A shiver ran through her legs, traveled through her abdomen, and settled in her chest. She gasped for breath as her skin went cold and goose bumps returned. To her arms. Her legs. Her long, wavy black hair shifted as the follicles tensed. With adrenaline rushing alcohol through her veins, she saw movement in the clock’s glass front. Someone was in the house! Her eyes flicked toward the dark shape as the rest of her body reacted with panic.

She spun around to face the intruder, but the rocking chair, wine, and her own limbs conspired against her. With a shout, she fell. The glass clock front shattered on the hard tile floor, a kaleidoscope of curved shards spreading out around her.

Footsteps to the right. From the dining room.

Her throat clasped shut. Each breath came as a gasp.

Glass crunched under the intruder’s feet. Her mind shouted at her, Defend yourself! Defend your son! Images filled her mind. Her drowning son. Her murdered son.

She moved quickly, half aware, lost in a frantic mental slideshow displaying images of Simon’s death. Fear consumed her, deforming her perception of the world around her, and she fought against it and her attacker with blind rage. She opened her eyes, just once, and saw four angry red eyes staring back. The pitch of her screaming grew painful to her own ears, but she kept attacking, fighting for her life.

For her son’s life.

A vague awareness of being struck began her journey back to lucidity. She felt claws scratching at her, pulling at her cheeks. She fought against the attacker, striking again and again, too afraid of those eyes to look again. The sound of her screaming voice drowned out the high-pitched shriek of the monster attacking her, the thing she’d seen in the clock’s reflection.

It wasn’t until her enemy, now beneath her, stopped struggling that she dared to look at it. What she saw made no sense — a nightmare invading reality.

She saw her son, lying beneath her, still drowning, but this time in blood. His own. It seeped from a number of wounds covering his body. His hand, resting against her cheek, fell away. His eyes shifted up, widened, and then changed. The energy behind them faded.

He was dead.

Reality collided with her, knocking her back. She slammed into the fridge. Sharp pain drew her eyes to her hand. A long shard of glass, covered in blood, poked her palm. She loosened her grip and glanced from the clear triangular dagger to her son’s punctured body.

The phone rang. It rang and rang and rang, playing backup to her anguished screams.

Her insides quivered, fear returning, gently molding her actions. She lifted the glass still in her hand. Placed it against her wrist. And pulled.

Somewhere, a door slammed open. A voice shouted her name. And then, it too joined the pained chorus of despair and parental loss.

1

I want to tell you a joke. The punch line might elude me for a time, but we’ll get there. I tend to ramble. Details make humor more robust, I think, though some would prefer I skip right to the end. Too bad for them; I don’t give a fuck.

A guy and a girl walk into a bar. He’s a philistine. The build suggests ex — football player. The high-and-tight haircut screams military, but the cocksure way he carries himself tells me he was too chickenshit to handle war and is boosting his ego by intimidating the folks of this small town.