I clicked my tongue in annoyance as my index finger grazed against a stray paper-pin lying on the cluttered desk where I often sat down to read or write. A bauble of blood slowly blossomed like a blooming hibiscus, eventually trickling down to the sheet, obscuring the word 'Theodore', the name of my protagonist. I scraped the chair back, rising to fetch a band-air from the washstand in the kitchen. It'd take a lot of effort to wipe the blood off the page, I told myself, I really should have taken to using a computer. I tut-tutted at my predicament. Grumbling under my breath, I ambled towards the basin with the first-aid box to grab a glass of water as well, while at it.
As I rinsed my finger under the open faucet, I, for reasons yet unknown, felt unseen eyes on me, as though someone was breathing down my neck. Inwardly snorting, for I did have a very fertile imagination, I all but shook my head unbelievable. However, as I continued with my ministrations with the band-aid and ointments, I could not shake off the sensation. When I gazed up at the large, rectangular mirror on the wall just above the washstand and...
Lo and behold...
Someone was indeed grabbing my reflection from behind!
I spun around, but, recalling cliches from old novels, there was, predictably, no one in the vicinity, just an eye-patch-wearing, tall, gaunt man clutching onto my doppelgänger within the depths of the looking-glass.
This had to have been a very tasteless nightmare, if indeed it happened to be one. But it wasn't, however. The clock was still chiming like it did a second ago, my finger was still half-bandaged, the agony still raw.
Gathering my wits about me (I was shocked at how composed I was despite the bizarre situation), I hoarsely inquired to no one in particular, tone quite rude,
"Who on earth are you? And let go of... me!" Well, what else was I supposed to say other than 'me'? The image was still mine, although I, on this end, was quite free of vice-like grips.
The man parted his lips, his expression bitterly amused, "Seriously, woman? You fail to recognize your own creation?"
"Come again?"
The man let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, please! Didn't you yourself want me to put on an eyepatch because the Nazis gouged an eye out while they came inspecting the concentration camp in Auschwitz?"
My jaw dropped about a foot to the floor (no, jaws don't, actually).
"Don't tell me.... you're... you're... Theodore?"
"The very same, in the flesh!"
"And why exactly are you, to use your own turn of phrase, here 'in the flesh'? Who gave you permission to take form in the material world?" (I am a bit too calm, it almost unnerved me!)
"As arch as the next author, aren't you, woman? As for why I materialized, well, you gave birth to me, with your own blood." Theodore shrugged.
"You mean..." I lifted my finger, "... this cut?"
"Oh, yes." The man in the mirror was slowly tightening his grasp on my reflection, his eyes wild, frenzied, "Haven't you heard the saying, 'Blood, sweat and tears'? Writers exhaust their blood, sweat and tears to give us life, don't they?"
"Then why are you assaulting me if you consider me your creator?"
"Do I need to answer that too? Honestly, for an author, you're quite obtuse. Let me spell it out for you, then. I'm here to exact vengeance. You had your fun, now it's my turn!"
"Fun?"
"You get a thrill out of writing, yes? Violence, angst, gratuitous gore arouse you, right? For money and fame, you decided that allowing my sister, Clara, to be mutilated by the soldiers, would excite your readers, as vile and deviant as you!"
"That's not-"
"Silence! You wrote 'Clara's death infuriated Theodore and made him see red'. Now experience for yourself what transpires when Theodore does 'see red'!"
With that, Theodore, with his brawny hands, ripped off my reflection's right sleeve. Then repeated the action a second time. That was when horror truly crept into my veins, terror as I had never known before coiled around my heart. At the thought of a plight I would never wish on even the worst of my enemies.
"Why don't I re-enact Clara's crisis on you, her real tormentor?"
"Please... Anything but that... Please..."
This time, both me and my image opposite were pleading, hands conjoined as though in prayer.
"You know, you are a degenerate in every sense of the term!" Theodore spun 'me' around (I could only watch in desperation) and placed a rough palm on my ruffled, striped white cravat while I cringed in fright. "Clara's violation was the part of the story you enjoyed writing the most. You got a kick out of it. You're a spinster, but you were reliving your disgusting fetishes through her pain and suffering! Lying is a sin, dear creator of mine. Admit to yourself," with one sharp, staccato haul, 'my' tie came undone, "you are secretly savouring my deeds... Both you, as a sick voyeur, as well as this version of you I'm torturing!"
"No... No... I'm begging you... Please... Anything but that..."
"Oh, shut up..." Theodore replied lazily, a predatory, hungry glint in his pupils, a smirk lifting a corner of his lips.
"You must understand, Theodore, I had no other choice but to kill Clara..."
"To move the plot forward, yes, trust me, I do follow," Theodore slammed 'me' to the floor, "but why the hell," he encircled his hand around 'my' throat, "should we suffer for your profession? Aren't we alive too, My Lady?" His voice quavered ever so slightly.
'My Lady'? Pondered I.
Why, though?
He loathed me enough to taint my image...
Does he, somewhere within the forgotten recesses of his subconscious, regret his actions?
"Theodore, please try to see this from my point of view!" I bellowed in the direction of the mirror, "I am terminally ill, and I've no one who can pay the bills for my treatment. Writing is the only task I'm capable of to ensure that my doctor's fees are duly paid. Do you comprehend? Did you think I've never once considered marriage? But the man I love doesn't reciprocate, doesn't wish to be tied down with an invalid in tow! Do you understand, Theodore?" My knees buckled, tears threatened to pool in my eyes. "Do you get my meaning?" I re-iterated, my tone breaking with the strain.
But Theodore was beyond all rationality. "We are all alive! We aren't confined to your pages! What gives you the right to erase one of us?" His dark fringes dishevelled, perspiration evident on his face, he rasped, panting heavily, continuing to tear off my reflection's dress, tossing aside her shoes, her socks while she kicked uncontrollably, pleading for breath (his hand had moved from 'my' throat to the face, restraining the mouth).
"Learn the fear and despair of Auschwitz! Learn my side of the story!"
Soon, pinned to the bloodied floor of the kitchen at Theodore's mercy, a stream of spittle running down 'my' cheek, 'I' lay, neck twisted, almost naked, with only two thin pieces of undergarments covering my chest and pelvis. I wasn't quite sure if 'I' had met my end, the groaning and protests had ceased entirely. In any case, Theodore was turning more and more bestial by the minute, his hands had morphed into claws. Teeth bared (I could almost swear his canines had lengthened like those of carnivores), he hissed, "I witnessed Clara like this too, you wrote it to be so! I felt just as helpless, they had damaged my eye and I couldn't move! Yes," his talons ran up and down my exposed skin, relishing the sensation, "the Nazis had gloated at my sister just like this... Just like this... They revelled in her discomfiture." Theodore tugged at 'my' corset and I wept aloud, "And finally," his claws moved past my abdomen to reveal the last shreds that tethered 'me' to dignity...
All of a sudden, as silence pounded louder than ever, he.... stopped.
I hastily wiped my face to squint at the mirror, my sobs quietening.
Irises widened, Theodore had noticed a single tear streaming out of 'my' right eye.
"Y-You're... s-supposed to be... d-dead! W-Why... do you... shed tears...? N-Now of all times, w-when I'm so close to delivering my vengeance? W-Why, you wench? Why..." He faced the looking-glass to gaze at the real me, ".... My Lady?" His mien had changed. For Theodore had just seen how the vandalism he had imposed on my reflection had rebounded on me.
I was now violently sick, I had doubled over, coughing, blood and saliva flooding the finely crafted motley of mosaics on the ground.
"W-why?" He had a hand covering his gaping mouth, the claws were gone.
"Don't... you... remember?" I smiled at him through the excruciating agony, "H-How... I... described... you... in the n-novel? 'Theodore, who only ever envisioned his side of the picture, what he wanted to believe, what he felt comfortable in believing'...? You, as is your nature, conveniently forgot the name that was meant to be printed upon completion of the book... I cried throughout the entire chapter as I penned down Clara's torture..." Coughing a couple more times, I went on, "If we authors do not laugh when recounting happy moments, don't weep when narrating instances of grief, how else do you think we give you life? Theodore, you exist; very much so. But you were born precisely because I imbued a bit of myself into you. Tell me, my child, did it satisfy you, staining the dignity of your own mother?" In spite of my injuries, I stood up, facing my protagonist squarely. "Henceforth, I disown you, cast you out of my soul. Cease breathing, O Black Sheep of this little family of characters I created. You lot were all I had."
"No, My Lady, please... Let me return to your womb... Forgive me, My Lady... Please... Anything but that..."
I turned away from the mirror and without further ado, strode back to my study, the disintegrating figure in the looking-glass utterly disregarded.
**
"Miss Clara, what became of your manuscript 'Auschwitz Draped in Blood'?" My editor inquired, straightening his thick-rimmed spectacles on the bridge of his beaky nose. "The deadline was supposed to be today!" He sounded disapproving.
"Sorry Sir, I had another attack of tuberculosis last night, the sheets were completely smeared in blood. I had to toss the whole thing in the bin. Don't worry, I'll write something again worthy of your time."
"This is why I keep telling you... Use a goddamn computer... Oh, honestly!"
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