MirrorWorld

“You don’t remember anything past a year ago.” She makes sure I’m looking in her eyes. “All but two days of your remembered life have been in this place. Before that was two days in a jail cell and an hour at a bar. Am I wrong?”

“No.”

My eyes turn to the floor and then back out at the view. “Would I be leaving today?”

I see the motion of her nod in my periphery.

“Yes,” I say. “I want to leave.”

“First,” she says. “I need proof.”

“Of what?”

“Step one. What do you think of me?”

I look her up and down, appraising her. I stop on her eyes. “You’re intelligent. Driven. Brave. You’re also hiding something, but who isn’t?”

“Is that all?”

“I’d also like to sleep with you, but you already knew that.”

“What makes you say that?” she asks.

“Have you looked in a mirror? Who wouldn’t want to sleep with you?”

She looks down at the bright orange poncho. “Most of me is covered.”

“Your face would more than make up for any flaws beneath it, and not everything is hidden.” I glance down at her chest, from which the loose poncho hangs, and am only slightly surprised to find my right hand cupping her left breast. A complete lack of fear means that I sometimes act without thought. Fear acts as a social buffer, giving most people time to contemplate their actions and the ramifications. Not only do I lack that buffer, the potential negative effects of my actions don’t faze me. Only my strong moral code keeps me in check, but on occasions like this, it’s all hindsight.

“Very good,” she says, like I’ve passed a test.

I withdraw my hand and apologize, but she waves the words away like they’re some kind of stink. “Step two.” She reaches up and slides her fingers beneath the collar of my shirt. For a moment, I think she’s going to repay the fondle with one of her own, but she takes hold of something that she shouldn’t know is there. The chain slides out from under my shirt. Having it is technically against the rules, but the few times they’ve tried to take it, I’ve gone actual crazy. I don’t know what it is, where it’s from, or why I cling to it, but I know I can’t live without it. And that I would kill to retrieve it.

The pendant at the end of the chain falls free, hanging on the metal links. It’s a colorful mash-up of melted plastics formed into a crude circle.

“Are you afraid?” she asks.

“I’m resisting the urge to break your hand.”

She turns the pendant around, reading the single word etched into the flat backside. “Evidence.” She frowns for a moment but covers it up quickly. “Do you know what this is?”

It feels like my soul, but I know that’s ridiculous, so I shake my head. “It’s the craziest thing about me, so you better put it back.”

She does, slipping it inside my collar and letting it drop.

“Now, step three.” The vinyl of her poncho makes a shhh sound as her arm rises. Her hand emerges holding a ceramic three-inch blade. “Stab yourself.”

“Why?”

She squints at me. “Are you afraid?”

“I’m not stupid, if that’s what you’re trying to figure out.”

She looks out the window to the long driveway that ends a quarter mile away, the gates blocked from view by lush oaks. “There is an ambulance waiting at the end of the drive. They’ll be here within minutes. You’ll be rushed to the hospital.”

“Only it won’t be a hospital,” I say. “Where will it be?”

She smiles; this time it’s forced. “Won’t be here.”

I reach out and take the blade from her. “Run.”

She looks horrified for a moment, hearing a threat where there was none intended.

“This isn’t going to go over well.” I look around the room.

Understanding widens her eyes. She backs away slowly, turns around, and hurries for the metal chain-link gate, which Chubs opens from the other side.

Knife in hand, I look out the window. It’s a beautiful day. I bet it smells wonderful.

A scream tears my eyes away from the window. “Dollar ninety-five! Dollar ninety-five!” It’s Seymour, repeating what he’d just seen on TV. Both hands flail in my direction. At my stomach. “Help! Help! Help! Dollar ninety-five.”

“Chick, chick, boom!” Shotgun says, shooting his imaginary weapon straight at me, his face twisted up in horror. “Chick, chick, boom!”

As the large room explodes with activity, I look down. Two inches of the knife’s blade are currently buried in my torso. Someone’s going to have to clean this floor tonight, I think, and fall to my knees.

3

“Do you know what you did?” the paramedic asks me, her thick British accent distracting me from the question. Her face is hidden by a surgical mask and thick glasses. An explosion of hair frames her nonface. Graying. Maybe fifty-five. Despite the accent, I hear the bewilderment in her voice and replay the question in my mind.

A full twenty seconds later, I lean up and look down. My shirt is missing, but the plastic pendant still hangs from my neck. Which is good for everyone in this ambulance. I turn my gaze lower. The knife handle sticks out of my gut like the first skyscraper built in Dubai. “I stabbed myself.”

“More accurately?” she asks.