The Back Of The Mirror

⚠️ Murder ⚠️

1938

I feel my hands on her throat, choking her. I stare into her eyes as she draws her last breath, searching her face for something to recognize, something to set her apart from the women I pass in the streets. 

My hands let go of her throat and she stiffens before crumpling sideways to the floor, palms pressed together as if praying for the life she has just lost. I move to stand in front of her. If she prays, she will pray to me only.

I wake up, the dream-image printed in my head, as it had been last night and the nights before. Each night, the dream gets more vivid.

I smile. Soon, maybe as soon as tomorrow night, I will recognize the face of my victim. Soon, I would claim her life, and fill the aching hole in my heart.

I've had a nightmare. I can't remember it, but I know it's the same one that I've had for the last few nights, that leaves me shivering all over every time I wake up. I used to think only children had nightmares, and now... I feel like a child again.

Since last week it's haunted me, taunting by scaring me every night, then dissolving from my memory as the day comes.

I rise from my bed to see sunlight brightening my closed curtains. The clock on my wall says 9:14. The morning routine must be attended to.

My pale coat and bowler hat wait patiently for me beside the front door. I dress hurriedly then put them on, opening the door and wincing as full sunlight hits me for the first time today.

My quick heartbeat drowns out the morning street noises, the shadow of my nightmare not yet banished.

I walk along the streets until I reach my regular café. I'm not a social person, but the smell of sweet cinnamon and coffee that lingers around the entrance is always too good to resist, pulling in casual passers-by like mermaids, to be stuck there until either their money runs out or they fall asleep.

I take a last glance around me for the woman of my dreams before being reluctantly pulled in by the beautiful, haunting smells.

The waitress at my regular café smiles at me as I walk in and take a seat by the window. She takes my order then disappears, fading through the crowd. 

When she comes back, she holds a steaming cup of coffee. I thank her and look out of the window as she places it on my table. 

With each dream, the aching grows. The yearning for power, power over life and death, hurts, but I wouldn't give it up if I could. I've come to love the chains that bind me.

I'm watching for something - someone. I was looking for them yesterday and the days before, but I've only just realised it. I wish I knew who I was looking for. 

I sit and wait for the woman of my dreams to pass, watching the outside world with greedy eyes. Suddenly I catch something from the wrong side of the window that reminds me of my dream, and I bolt through the door in pursuit.

 - The waitress stared at the door, an upturned chair lying unheeded beside her.The gentleman hadn't paid his bill. -

I'm halfway down the street before I realise that I don't know who I'm chasing. The woman of my dreams has disappeared among the crowd. I decide to go home.

I've left the café to go back to my house. A letter waits for me outside my front door. I walk inside, take off my hat and coat and sit down to read it. The first sentence tells me who the letter is from.

'Dear Bug,' (I smile at the childish nickname. Since she first saw me, Aunt Maddie has insisted on calling me 'Bug'.)

'A hermit's life can be very trying at times. Your last visit was three months ago, you naughty little scamp. I'm sure you would not want your old aunt to die of loneliness, would you? Yours, Aunt Maddie.'

Dear Aunt Maddie. She could never say anything directly.

I stare down at the letter. 'Dear... Visit... Aunt Maddie.'

I suppose I will have to visit Lady Mirrelton (I have never and will never refer to her as 'Aunt Maddie'. Ridiculous). After all, I'm the sole beneficiary of her will. I must act the part of a devoted adopted nephew. She hasn't got long to live, and at any time she could write me out of her will.

She's right about visiting more often. I have nothing to do today; I might as well start now.

On goes the hat and coat again, poor worn-out things. Aunt Maddie's estate is only a few minutes walk away.

I walk to the Mirrelton estate whistling loudly. Again and again I run my dream through my head, revelling in the feeling of power that it gives me, filling the aching hole with a new, better kind of ache.

There's no answer to my knock. Aunt Maddie has never had any indoor servants, despite the size of her house. I open the door myself and walk down the candle-studded hallway to the visiting room.

Lady Mirrelton is glad to see me. She smiles, her wrinkles multiplying until her face is just mountains and valleys with two colourless eyes set deep inside. And suddenly I know.

Rising from her chair, she comes forward to greet me. I take a step towards her and fasten my hands around her throat before she can react. The scene from my dream is finally replayed in reality, and the thrill that runs through me is better than anything I have ever felt. I have mastered control over the powers of life and death.

 - A gardener working on the estate froze as a noise like the laugh of death reached his ears. -

I stand alone in the middle of the hallway, waiting. Waiting for what? I wish I knew.

I'm no longer in control, almost in a trance as I slowly walk to the hall 'phone. My hands reach for it and dial a number. I feel my lips forming words.

"My aunt's been strangled." 

Only after I've hung up do I realise what I've said. Strangled. I said Aunt Maddie's been strangled.

A wave of panic rushes through me and I hear my own footsteps running towards Aunt Maddie's visiting room. 

She's praying. I breath a sigh of relief - and freeze. She's not moving, not making a noise. She's dead, and I don't need to see the marks on her neck to know that she's been strangled.

One week later...

When the news spread that the famous hermit, Lady Mirrelton, had been murdered, there was a sensation. The local papers published news of nothing else, and the public crowded the estate, the impending war forgotten.

I sit on the bed of my cell, legs swinging, reliving The moment. The ache, the new and better ache, still clings to me. The hole in my heart is wider, the pain stronger, darker, and I love it.

I chuckle to myself, looking at the guard by my cell door. I can kill him any time I want to.

I still can't get over her - her death. It's like a nightmare. The nightmare that has been plaguing me for nights.

I finally know who I've been searching for. I know - I know - I know.

I am taken to trial, to stand in the dock. The judge's clerk rises.

Clerk: You stand charged upon this indictment with the murder of Madeline Gladys Mirrelton on the third day of October. Do you please guilty or not guilty?

I: Not guilty.

(They are fools to think that they can convict me.)

Clerk: Members of the jury, the prisoner stands upon this indictment for the murder of Madeline Gladys Mirrelton on the third day of October. To this indictment he has pleaded not guilty, and it is your charge to say, having heard the evidence, whether he is guilty or not.

(He sits.)

Someone from the other side of the court clears their throat. A large, slow-looking man takes his place in the witness box.

After placing his hand on the Bible and reciting the oath, he announced himself as Detective-Inspector Robert Oake of New Scotland Yard.

I can hear the questioning from my place in the backroom where the witnesses wait.

Prosecution: Inspector, you say that you and three of your officers arrived at the Mirrelton estate in answer to an phone call reporting a murder. Did you take the call yourself?

Inspector: Yes.

Prosecution: If you were asked to identify the voice, would you consider yourself sufficiently capable of doing so?

Inspector: Yes.

I've fallen asleep and missed the first part of my trial. They seem to be still questioning the Inspector.

Prosecution: Had it perhaps been a voice familiar to you prior the call?

Inspector: No. I had never heard the caller's voice before.

(The audience whispers among themselves.)

Prosecution: Have you heard it since?

Inspector: Yes.

Prosecution: Would you please tell the court where?

Inspector: In this court, barely minutes ago.

Prosecution: Who does the voice belong to?

Inspector: The prisoner.

(Sensation in court. I start. I don't remember calling the police. Why would I want to?)

The Inspector is dismissed. I pass the rest of the trial in a trance, barely conscious of anything. I still haven't figured out who's on trial.

Prosecution: Members of the jury, you have heard of the prisoner's current financial state, which made it necessary to borrow money from the deceased, his only living relative.

You have heard of how he was invited to visit her by letter and decided to go that very day.

You have heard that upon his visit, he professes to have not seen her alive, finding her body after making the 'phone call to the police, an action which he has not attempted to explain.

Given the evidence, I am confident that you will find the prisoner justly guilty.

The jury retire to their room to decide their verdict. I'm afraid... I'm afraid that if I think at all I'll realise something... Something I don't want to know.

"Guilty, my lord."

I laugh, and even to my own ears it sounds mad, the voice of Death thwarted.

They think I'm scared of death. I welcome death with open arms. There, the ultimate pain awaits me. 

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This story is a re-write of a story I wrote about 4 months ago, my first short story. (You can read the original here: https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ulcd58/

I wrote this again (with a definite change in plot) because I wanted to see if my writing had improved in these months. I hope you enjoyed it.