'MR. LORENZO,’ THE nurse called out. ‘Your room is ready.’
I followed her down the narrow hallway, trudging past vacant rooms and empty stretchers. Pipes caked in dust snaked across the ceiling. The farther we walked, the colder the air became as if even warmth wouldn’t venture down to the place we were going. Her olive scrubs were wrinkled and the strands of her brown hair were frazzled. Where artwork would normally be mounted, the walls were adorned with cobwebs and the ghosts of room numbers. A heavy silence grew between us. Noticing a ripped and bloodied shirt hanging from the mouth of a trash bin, my heart’s pace quickened. I had questions.
‘So, does this actually work?’ I asked, catching a glimpse of a boarded-up room.
She turned to me, her red lips giving a thin smile. ‘Work in what way, Mr Lorenzo?’
We turned left, continuing down another long hallway. The red aura of an emergency exit beamed along the wall.
‘Do people walk out of here better?’ I asked, eyeing a pile of dirty sheets lying in a corner.
I had read reviews that marvelled about the treatment from the opinions column in the local paper, but figured it would be better to hear it from the horse’s mouth.
‘It’s what you make of it. Some patients have called and expressed the enlightenment they experienced after the procedure,’ she brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
We stepped around a spill that looked like water but reeked of days-old urine.
‘And the others?’ I furrowed an eyebrow.
‘Do you really want me to tell you before you do this?’ she shook her head. ‘Go into it with an open mind and a shovel, be willing to excavate as deep as you need to in order to heal. People have made the mistake of doing this without being ready to face their own demons. If you’re not ready, the demons will win.’
She stopped in front of a white door with chipped paint. The surface was splintered as if someone had beaten the other side.
‘The room is right here. Just remove your shoes and roll up your pant legs because there’s about three inches of water inside.’
I kicked off my Oxfords and rolled up my khakis until they were past my ankles, my dry feet and hairy ankles exposed. The nurse eyed my injured finger, the unthreaded stitches mimicking the look of thin parasites.
‘Can you explain one more time what I’m supposed to do?’ I watched as she took a deep sigh, embarrassment flushing my face.
‘You’ll sit in the chair and wait for the mirrors to take the lead,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘What happens after that is up to you.’
‘W-wait for how long? And why the water?’
‘The water is to calm your nerves and put your mind at ease, and you wait for however long it takes. Everyone’s time is different. But to be frank, you strike me as extremely nervous and it’s making me a bit concerned for you.’
I frowned, folding my arms. ‘I can do this. I just need clarity.’
She nodded, ‘Best of luck to you, Mr Lorenzo.’
Clutching a hand around the silver doorknob, I exhaled, watching my own breath plume in front of me. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. Only the faint sound of the nurse’s heels stepping farther away could be heard over the alarm in my head. There was still time to turn around. To go home. What if I wasn’t ready to face my own beasts? I could always leave if it became too intense. The muscles in my hand relaxed, my grip loosening from the metal. I looked down and saw my wounded finger. Dry blood still lingered around my knuckle. As my grip around the knob tightened, a dull ache formed in my hand. A kaleidoscope of images exploded in my skull; I saw the morphine, the ambulance lights, the white splotches. I needed help. It was just on the other side of the doorway.
‘Okay,’ I took a deep breath, ‘okay, let’s do it,’ I pushed open the door.
Crossing the threshold, my feet were greeted by a rush of icy water. A waft of cheap Windex slammed into my nose. After one sniff my head felt fuzzy. The space was the size of an average hospital room and bore no windows. The only reflections given were from the mirrors that were placed all over the walls. Some were handhelds. Some were tall. The shape of each varied. I moved deeper into the room. The hinges on the door squeaked. Turning toward the high-pitched noise, I saw the door moving back to its frame. Then it closed.
‘Nurse?’ I called out, walking back to the room’s entrance. I tried the knob. It didn’t budge. From where I stood, I bore witness to several dents embedded in the door left by one person…or several. I understood, then, why they were there. A tinge of regret probed my mind.
Water sloshed around my ankles as I crept deeper into the unfamiliar place. The ceiling light bathed the room white. In the centre was a plastic chair. It was rough, and scratches were tattooed along the back of the seat. It reminded me of the chair we’d sat on in elementary school. I took my seat, the rigid surface groaning beneath my weight. Swallowing, I placed a hand over my heart feeling its rapid drum. My eyes were glued to my feet.
Staring at my reflection—something I did every morning—had suddenly become the scariest thing in the world. Not because of the treatment, but because of what would stare back at me. I had done over one-hundred therapy sessions, none of which helped me reach the catharsis I was hoping to grasp.
This has been my last resort.
I lifted my head, my view changing from my unclipped toenails to a wooden frame, until finally reaching the looking glass. Mounted on top of the frame was an intricate skull carving. The weak light glowed above me, the halo of a fallen angel. I frowned at my reflection, disgust smeared across my face. My hairless scalp, the mole next to my eyebrow, the dingy shirt and tie. We peered at each other, a staring contest between the bruised and battered—and broken. Behind the clouded eyes, I saw nothing unfamiliar. Everything stored away remained in an unreachable void. The phantoms in my life had been caged behind bars created by my shitty memory. I heard their echoes still—the faint rumblings of voices and sensations I had suppressed. My demons were relentless in that regard. I saw their crooked, calloused claws behind my pupils. Would this be the day they finally broke free?
Time passed. Nothing happened. I leaned forward, lacing my hands between my legs. My reflection did the same. An ache formed in my lower back, courtesy of the cheap chair. The stillness put me at ease. I started to believe that the treatment was nothing more than just looking at myself. Piece of cake. Cupping my chin in my palm, I began whistling, shifting my posture every other minute to ease the dull pain in my spine. Boredom kept me company, my fingers picking at the loose stitches in my hand as if they had a mind of their own. Folding my lips, I narrowed my eyes and assessed the injury, mimicking a doctor. A feeling of remorse ran down my spine. It was chilling. Devastating to see a reminder of just how far off the deep end I’d gone. It was my fault.
Another five minutes passed. I examined the wrinkles on the bottom of my feet, mushy from being in the water for so long. Tracing my fingers down either foot, the pruney skin felt rubbery. The hair on my ankle was glued to my leg. I looked back at the glass, my hands idly massaging my deformed foot. My reflection, my copycat, didn’t mock me. It was sitting in the same posture that I was in earlier. Furrowing an eyebrow, I plopped my leg back into the pool. Something in my back popped as I leaned forward. Still, my reflection didn’t follow.
‘What the hell…?’
Through laced hands, my reflection seemed to glare at me, wickedness a mere smokescreen behind its pupils. A haze to shield whatever lurked behind those eyes that were my own but seemed to belong to something else. My reflection’s lips were still puckered, nodding its head, blowing a tune that I couldn’t hear. I stood up. Water sloshed around my calves as I approached the familiar in front of me. I curled my first and middle finger, knocking against the glass. My reflection didn’t flinch. Only a hollow noise was given. My heart stopped. I could no longer see myself in the mirror at all. Just a mimic that seemed to take on a life of its own. I watched with wide eyes as the figure rose from the chair, a sinister grin forming on its face, as it walked across from one mirror into the next, then to the next, then the next one.
My gaze followed. The pulse in my wrist ran rampant as my lungs refused to release any breath. I couldn’t hear any footsteps. The shallow rumbling of glass cut through the silence as my reflection slithered through each mirror. Goosebumps took shape along my forearms and neck. The lightbulb above dimmed. I tried to move but my feet were paralyzed. The reflection now moved through the mirrors across the room, the sly smile still glued on the face that belonged to me. That smirk, however, wasn’t mine. The corners of the mouth reached all the way to the ears. The lines on the forehead were etched in narrow lanes like a track. It moved without effort, black eyes kept on me. Before I had a moment to investigate, my reflection had returned to its original mirror. It waved, giving a muted cackle, yet somehow I heard the devilish howl. My skin crawled. Then all at once the reflection vanished. Rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand, I observed the smudged surface of the glass. I could no longer see myself.
The mirror reflected nothing.
Slowly, I left my seat, feeling as though there was some invisible chain that kept me bound to it. I moved to a diamond-shaped mirror on the opposite side of the room, its border carved out of pink marble that had been splattered with sludge. I traced the side of it with my thumb and it returned covered in clumpy soot. As I looked within the glass surface, I saw a woman and a man driving down a highway. An empty bottle of gin rattled in the cup holder. The woman hollered words that I was unable to hear. Cocking her hand back, she slapped the man. I flinched. A red welt bloomed on the man’s face. Now, they both had matching bruises underneath their eyes. An uneaten syrup sandwich slid across the dust-covered dashboard, gold sap oozing down the white bread. In the back seat, an infant screeched from the car seat, revealing fresh pink gums. Its tiny arms flailed every which way.
Watching with narrowed eyes, I folded my lips. The navy Cadillac came to a halt. The man grabbed the newborn and jumped out of the passenger seat. He sprinted up the freeway shoulder. With one arm holding the baby, the man used the other to keep the momentum of his stride. Semi-trucks and sedans zoomed past, blaring their horns like trumpets. The woman quickly jumped out of the car and retrieved a crowbar from the trunk, chasing him down in a fury. Her gold cross necklace bounced off her chest. The distance was closing. She threw her hand back and bashed the rusty metal against his ribs. The man staggered. Barely holding onto the infant, he fell to his knees. Another strike was given to his back. The man cried out, his grip loosening from around the weeping boy. A fog billowed around the image; the reflection was gone.
Knots formed in my stomach and I ran a palm down my face. This wasn’t right. No weight had been lifted off of my shoulders by witnessing that. There was no catharsis. It was only trauma being forced-fed to a patient on hospice. A thought came to me out of the ether, a terrifying revelation:
What else would I have to relive?
‘This is my fault,’ I hissed.
I started towards the door, a lump forming in my throat. I wasn’t ready. It was too soon to deal with any of this madness, but the room didn’t care. From the corner of my eye, I saw figures moving in a small mirror adjacent to the exit. Carved at the top of the glass was an angel, the top of its wings gone, leaving behind jagged pieces of wood. Clipped wings never regrow. I knew the images that appeared all too well. Eternal nightmares. The child followed his teenage friend into the woods pretending his fingers were a gun. His cheeks pinched as he pretended to shoot invisible bullets at his target. Autumn leaves fell, crunchy brown and orange wonders. The bearded teenager ran ahead, feigning breathlessness. The boy skipped behind, sunlight radiating on his round face. My eyes welled with tears. The teenager caught my sombre look and winked, putting a single finger in front of his lips in a shhh gesture.
‘No…’ I clenched a fist over my quivering lip.
The teenager towered over the child. The boy tried to tackle his friend, giggling. Dirt stained the kid’s shirt and a piece of shrub was caught in his hair. My breathing slowed as I approached the hellish glass. The teenager grabbed the boy’s chin and moved his face closer to his. Quickly, I slammed my fist against the image, shattering the mirror into pieces. Blood pulsed from my hand, trickling into scarlet droplets. I tried to push the memory down. To keep it as far away from my being as possible. It didn’t work.
I should’ve played with kids my own age like my mother warned.
The boy moved to another mirror that was lower on the wall. His face was scraped and smudged with dried tears. He exhaled on the surface. A cloudy film appeared. The boy breathed once more on the glass, moving in a horizontal direction. An uneven streak of fog took form. And with a trembling finger he wrote, βΈ®enoyna llet uoy t’ndid yhW
I reread the message several times trying to make sense of what it said. I thought it was another language. Or that I had gone insane. My eyes moved from left to right. It was a puzzle from a ghost, and it bewildered me. Then I met the boy’s gaze. I saw the emptiness behind his pupils. I read the words from right to left. And finally the words echoed, hitting me like a sledgehammer. The question I’d asked myself every night before bed and every morning when I woke up.
‘I-... I’m sorry—’ I picked up the mirror ‘—I don’t know, I was scared.’
The boy’s bloodshot eyes continued to rain. Mucus oozed from his nose in slimy yellow rivulets. The shrub was still in his hair. Memorabilia from evil. Without thinking, I darted for the exit, rattling and twisting the knob. The door wouldn’t open.
‘Nurse!’ I hollered.
Slamming my injured palm against the wood surface, ignoring the searing pain, I cried out, ‘Nurse! I don’t want to do this anymore!’
I flicked a glance at the glass. The boy vanished.
‘No,’ I pleaded, swiping the icy surface. ‘Come back…please. I’m sorry.’
Nothing.
I released my grip on the mirror and it plunged into the water. The angel carving still peered out from beneath the shallow pool. As I ran a hand down my face, a sharp headache formed in the centre of my forehead. My vision blurred. Sweat rolled from my head. The knots in my stomach evolved into maggots that crawled every which way. I couldn’t hold it in, hot bile shot up my throat and out from my lips in orangish-white globs. A fiery pain sprouted from the centre of my chest. My breaths were long and slow. The room—my tomb—was a fun house tilting on its axis. Leaning over, I closed my eyes. Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. When I opened my eyes again, the room stood still. But my anger still flourished.
Clamping my teeth down on my lips, I charged towards the plastic chair. I picked up the cheap furniture and tossed it at the wall, a deep, guttural growl going with it. The chair bashed a pink handheld mirror, only splintering it. From where I stood I saw figures in motion.
I walked across the room and picked up the magenta handle. Glitter was drizzled along the long stem. Fear glued my hand to the object, keeping me from avoiding the memory.
A woman screamed at a teenage boy before bashing him in the head with her palm. A pot of ramen noodles bubbled, cascading onto the stove. The boy stormed out of the kitchen. He thundered past a wall ruined with holes and scratches. He grabbed his belongings from his bedroom, and emptied containers of makeup were scattered across the floor. As he moved along the devil’s playground, a sneaker struck his face. A white flash blinded him. as he stumbled backwards, his hands gripped the doorknob to freedom. He flung the door open. His eyes took a quick glance at the mat that said, ‘Love Lives Here.’ The boy almost tripped down the porch, scrambling from out of the home. His nose was bleeding. He got into the black SUV, and, upon entry, threw punches against the dashboard until he felt something splinter in his forearm. The yellow and white house that once was a foundation for love and support had shifted into a realm of chaos and hate. A breeding ground for evil. The rage he felt emanated into the room, a familiar anger that still slithered in my gut like a viper. My hand clenched, arms trembling. Just like all those years ago, I thrashed my fists against the wall, my wounded finger now oozing brownish-red blood.
I never healed.
I tossed the mirror. Then I tried the door again. Nothing. I slid down the corner of the wall. Images of the maimed boy flooded my brain. Why didn’t I tell anyone I needed help? Maybe because I didn’t think anyone could help me. Look where I ended up. In some twisted facility, being pulled down by the things I buried within myself. The rotted soil in my soul purged my entire being. Nothing bloomed there. My hands were swollen, purple and throbbing. Bits of white meat were exposed in my damaged finger.
‘Dammit…’ I threw my head back against the wall. ‘The only way out is through,’ I said, spitting a loogie on the floor.
Plucking the closest mirror from the wall, this one borderless, I watched the next nightmare reveal itself.
A young man was sitting in an apartment, his curly hair matted and unkempt. Half-empty containers of booze were littered on the floor. A pile of pills formed a mountain on the coffee table in front of him. Next to the white mass was a cup of water. The television illuminated a blue aura across the living room. He picked up one of the pills, examining it like it was some new life form. Tossing the pill onto his tongue, he took a sip of the room-temperatured water. The ball in his throat shifted as he swallowed. His eyes stared forward at the static playing on the television. He then began stuffing fistfuls of the capsules into his mouth, guzzling the beverage after each batch.
I wanted to look away, but my head wouldn’t move.
The young man stared ahead, watching black and white fuzzies run rampant on the screen. He stayed in that position for what felt like hours. His hand gripped the leathery couch arm, his entire being stricken by tremors. He took one step forward. Dark red blood torpedoed from his mouth. Then his body dropped on the carpet. The young man’s lips and face turned blue, his eyes rolling into the back of his skull. Foam ran from his lips, forming suds around the corners of his mouth. His body banged against the floor. His legs jerked, knocking against the table. The cup fell, rolling near the mayhem. A grey cloud smeared itself against the glass. The words tluaf ruo appeared.
I wiped my eyes. ‘We…I was a kid…’
‘I was a kid…’
‘I was a kid.’
I inched to the centre of the room, standing where the chair once was. I looked at the mirror where all of this had started. The image that took shape wasn’t from too long ago.
A man was arguing with his husband. Spittle flew from his lips as he unleashed his pent-up rage, throwing the divorce papers in the air. His mother’s fury had adopted him. His lover stormed out of the apartment. He made a weak attempt at grabbing his shoulder but missed.
‘Grab him!’ I ordered as if I were speaking to a henchman. ‘Don’t let him leave! Tell him you’re sorry!’
I planted a moist palm on the memory, hoping to feel my lover’s warmth, his skin, one last time. I only felt the glacial pain of a mistake that destroyed me. If all I saw was rage and confrontation, how could I eradicate that gene? How could I free myself if seeing my parents fight was just another normal day? If seeing broken windows and slashed tyres was a reflection of pain, how could I break away from that expression? I never slashed his tyres, but if my mother did it that means it’s in me too. I should’ve asked someone how I could break that curse.
Everything was my fault.
The reflection continued to play the memory, the apartment door slamming shut. The man kicked the walls of the broken home, leaving craters and gashes in the plaster. Bottles of regret and self-doubt were scattered across the kitchen and dining room. Clawing his scalp, he hollered—and although it was muted—I heard the scream. My scream. Sweat dripped from his face. With dry lips he mouthed the words, my fault. He tried to remove his silver wedding band, twisting and pulling as hard as he could. He shouted silent words. Words I’d never repeat. Pounding his palm against the counter, he grabbed a hatchet from the wooden block. His eyes widened. Placing his hand on the counter, he inhaled and exhaled.
I gritted my teeth. I felt the phantom pain of what was about to come.
He raised the tool in the air and slammed it onto his finger. Blood squirted across the walls and granite surface. The ruby pain acted as a lubricant. He slipped the ring off his finger, tossing it into the kitchen sink. He stumbled over his feet. His eyes traced circles in the sky, before falling on the linoleum. The image faded.
All I saw was myself.
My rage.
My sorrow.
My pain.
I placed a bloody handprint on the glass, ‘I’m sorry.’
The mirror rattled; the skull at the top of the frame knocked against the wall. I raised an eyebrow, puzzled at what was happening. What memory could this be? The knocking continued more violently—the sound of a drunken father banging against a door. I took a half-step backwards. The glass became clouded by black film, dripping soot into the water. It started as just a few drops, then it poured, mimicking the sound of a waterfall. A pair of arms pushed through the mirror’s surface. They were long and thin, reaching out as if trying to embrace me. I moved farther away. My face turned pale. Goosebumps formed on my arms and the hairs on my neck rose. With gnarled fingers, the invader slapped the wooden frame, making a wet sound. Splat!
‘What the hell…?’ I said through clenched teeth, watching this thing pull itself into the room.
The man-made pond turned cloudy. Behind the portal, two yellow eyes emerged. Then it hurled itself into the room. The monster’s skin looked as if it were painted with tar. I grimaced at the sight. I heard the hollow sound of sludge dripping from the creature’s frame. It was like droplets falling from a bathtub faucet. A potbelly was draped over its waist; where a navel should have been was only a wide gash. My heart dropped.
‘This isn’t real,’ I said to myself, rubbing my eyes. Still the ghoul remained.
It took a step towards me, opening its long snout. Hands. Several hands were reaching through its jaw, grasping, stretching the beast’s cheeks as if they were filling with air. They were clawing the air, hoping to hurt me. The entity growled. I scanned the room for anything to defend myself with. I didn’t see anything. Then it lunged at me. Screaming, I leapt backward, bumping into a mirror. I closed my eyes, hoping this was all in my head, just like how the room was tilting.
‘Please…’ I whispered. Everything went silent.
I opened my eyes and was greeted with a strike, this time clawing my chest. I screamed, watching as shreds of my shirt flew in the air. My back banged against the wall. I touched the wound on my torso and my hand returned slick with scarlet. My adrenaline surged. The thing that stood in front of me grunted. Was it laughing? The hands from its jaw still swatted the air. The hole in the beast’s stomach contracted as it spoke, rotting meat curling; the tissue was wriggling with worms. I couldn’t make out what it was saying at first. It sounded as if it were trying to speak while gurgling water. Then I heard the racket that came from inside the demon; our fault…our fault. The voice sounded like my own but was distorted. The bellow of decades of grief.
‘I know, I’m sorry,’ I begged, putting up bloody palms in a feeble attempt to defend myself.
I sprinted towards the door, trying the knob. Yanking, twisting, pulling. It didn’t budge. The entity slithered towards me. My heart stopped after each step it took. I faced it. The ghoul wasted little time. It charged at me, ready to kill. I raced to the other side of the room, picking up the plastic chair. Quickly, I threw it at the monster. The creature tumbled against the wall, leaving a massive, grimy dent. There was a moment of relief as I watched this thing lie against the wall. Its lifeless eyes stared at the floor. The hands in its mouth tried gripping the plaster.
My breathing slowed. Internally, I was begging for it not to get back up. The invader, as if hearing my thoughts, glared at me. Rage glazed its eyes. It clawed its way back up. The echoes of its bones cracking sent chills down my spine. The beast’s chest expanded like a hot-air balloon. Then the air bellowed from its stomach puncture, sending a deafening shriek across the room. My eardrums exploded. The air it released reeked of a pungent, putrid stench of expired seafood and vinegar. The mirrors trembled, then erupted, glass shattering. I shielded my eyes as glass sprayed across the air like glitter, scraping against my cheeks.
OUR FAULT!
My knees buckled. Glass crunched beneath my weight. Quickly, I kneeled, my hands searching for any shard to defend myself with. I picked up a jagged fragment from the floor, gritting my teeth. The demon stormed towards me. The hands protruding from its jaws yanked me by the throat. My feet were lifted off the ground. It tightened its grip; weak gasps escaped my lips. I could feel the cords in my throat pressing against one another. White splotches clouded my vision. A painful tightness formed in my lungs like they were constricted by barbed wire. Those damned yellow eyes still peered, mocking me.
I clamped down on the shard of glass. Raising my arm in the air, I stared at the evil incarnate. This was my demon. I plunged the dagger into the belly of the beast. I dragged the blade upward, watching its leathery skin split. The monster tossed me. Heavy footfalls shook the ground as it moved in semicircles, revealing a large gash on each of its shoulder-blades. The entity gave a banshee’s cry, the noise reverberating off the walls. Like a balloon, the monster burst. Raw guts, blood, and sludge were splattered everywhere.
Grimacing, I wiped the gunk from my eyes. It was over. I gasped for air, half of my face beneath the water. A soreness formed in my neck.
My eyes caught a dark silhouette moving. Something was floating across the pool, aiming for my feet. I leaned over and picked it up. It was a fragment of a shrub; I frowned at the sight. Then smiled as I placed it on my head, imagining my scalp still full of curls. The stick was rough and prickly. Sighing, I sat on the floor, exhaustion washing over me.
I repeated, ‘Not…our fault,’ then I closed my eyes.
Behind my eyelids, I saw that child with a piece of shrub in his hair. Wiping the tears from his eyes, I held him. I felt his warmth and could smell fresh mulch in his clothes. His tiny arms laced around my back. We didn’t speak. There was nothing to be said. We just stayed like that for what felt like hours. When I opened my eyes, the room had returned to how it looked before. No broken glass, blood, or ghoul residue. The plastic chair was back in its original place. My palms were empty. I slipped my hand over my chest, a blistering pain greeting me. My injuries remained.
Wincing, I stood up and limped to the door. My whole body screamed in despair. I jerked the doorknob, and it opened. A sigh of relief fled my lungs. I took a step into the hallway. As I walked through the doorway, I stared back at my reflection one last time. It glared back at me with the eyes of a broken soul. Discarded for being different, contaminated by many. Nobody saved us. Until today. I waved and my reflection waved back. I stepped across the threshold, damaged but still intact.
‘Not our fault,’ I said, wrapping my arms around myself, trudging down the hall.
‘Not our fault.’
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