The Vice

London, 1835

The lights went out.

I sat alone in the living room, sipping a bitter cup of warm tea. As soon as the room went dark, the tea went cold. I settled the cup onto its saucer on a side table, and lit a nearby candle.

It was just after midnight, and the world outside was quiet. Even the crickets stopped chirping as they prepared for sleep.

But I could not sleep.

I had heard the others whispering at church. “There she comes, crazy, evil Kate,” they hissed, restless eyes sneering at me. “Already done mourning, already done wearing black. She must have killed him. Young men of 25 don’t just die like that, you know.”

Does it make me crazy? 

He may have passed, but life continues. I must still live. I can’t grieve forever.

And does it make me evil?

He had held a dagger to my throat. He threatened to slit me open. I couldn’t have just stood there, waiting to die. I did my part. I survived, even at the expense of a murderer’s life. And now my life continues, and I live.

I walked through the dark corridor, the flickering flame of the candle in its saucer bouncing from wall to wall. The boiler room was just down the hallway. I’d bring the power back shortly.

I passed the big painting he had custom painted for us just last Christmas. Him looming over me, groping my shoulders tightly. I had clawed his face off the painting when he died, leaving thick ropes of shredded canvas draping down the wall. I couldn’t stand being threatened anymore.

Further down the hall, I came across the full-length mirror I bought for myself. I wanted to see the full scale of each of the dresses he gifted me, all made of apologies, and all beautiful. I wanted to truly appreciate every intricate detail, every golden thread, every sorry. He hated the reason I bought the mirror. “Why!” he’d yell. “A waste of time and a waste of space, you and your mirror! Go learn an instrument instead. Or how to sing, or dance -- or, more importantly, to please your husband!”

But I liked my dresses, and I liked seeing them in all their glory.

In fact, I did so now. I marveled at the sheer detail of each ruffle in my skirt, all the shadows and reflections of light. There was heavy guilt in this one, I could tell, because it was so beautiful. His apologies are so beautiful. I took my time eyeing my way up to the corset when I realized I wasn’t holding the candle.

That is, in the mirror I wasn’t.

A chill ran down my spine. I held the candle in my other hand, but there was only an exchange of air between the mirror’s hands. I frowned.

She smiled.

I gaped and stepped back. She moved forwards enthusiastically, but was stopped by the mirror.

Cautiously, I inched towards the mirror, and she walked back to her original spot.

I didn’t know what to do, so I smiled. She frowned.

Beads of sweat bubbled on my forehead, and I was almost ready to cry. 

“Maybe I am crazy,” I whispered frenziedly. She tipped her head to the side and opened her mouth to laugh a little.

“Yes, you are,” she answered.

She looked just like me. She had the same black hair, the same round eyes, the same dress.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m you,” she answered. “I’m here to tell you the things you try not to tell yourself. You’re a bad person, Kate. You’re evil. How could you hurt your own husband?”

I frowned. She smiled.

“He would have killed me. I never wanted to hurt him, it was self-defense. It was me or him, and I wouldn’t just stand there and sacrifice myself.”

“You’re a killer, Kate.”

I smiled. She frowned.

“What are you here for?”

“To bring you to your senses.”

“I’m a good person.”

“I’m a killer,” she said.

I walked away. I shook my head. I cleared my thoughts. It was getting colder, and the night was getting darker. The boiler room was just down the hall.

I turned back towards the mirror, and she turned back towards me.

“I’m not evil, am I?”

“You tell me. You’re the murderer.”

“I’m not a murderer…”

“We’re the killer.”

I killed him. I killed my husband. Yes, to that I confess. But it wasn’t because of any evil intent, no, not to any malicious urge. I didn’t want him dead at all. No, no. No, I loved him. Oh, I loved him! But he hurt me, he wanted me dead. He threatened me, he had his plan laid out to kill me, to rid him of me. I had to kill him!

“Why am I doing this to me?”

“I’m not the victim. I’m the vice.”

“The criminal, the killer. I’m the killer.”

I stood defensively before the mirror, and immediately my composure fell. My knees shook and I leaked pearls of sweat, each monotonous drop culminating in a sudden bout of hysteria.

“Oh, I did kill him, yes, I confess! I am guilty, yes, I am the killer of my very own husband, my love, my life! Oh, I will always be the killer! I murdered him, and buried his bent and disfigured body, and washed his only remains, his pomegranate red blood, his only living memory, off my stained palms. I’ve tricked myself, I’ve never been the victim!”

I fell to the ground sobbing. 

“It’s me! It’s me! Take me away, rid me of my guilt! I am the killer!”

“You murderer!” my twin yelled at me.

She reached through the mirror and held me as I sobbed into her shoulder. Slowly, she began to pull us into the mirror.

“You’re evil, Kate. You belong here, with me. We’ll meet God together and fix all of this.”

My heart dropped. “No!” I cried, pushing her away. She was sucked back into the mirror.

In the mirror, her black hair became white light, her dress of green silk. She took the form of an angel, her wings spreading wide on the other side.

“You belong here, Kate! You’re the killer, you’re the murderer, you’re the vice!” she screamed, banging on the mirror. “You’re the vice!”

“I didn’t mean to do it,” I sobbed pleadingly, “please leave me alone, I didn’t mean to hurt him. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

She wasn’t listening. She was screaming, scratching and pounding on the mirror.

“I’m a good person, I’m a good person,” I blubbered, crawling away.

“Evil! Vice! Killer! I’m dangerous! I’ve sinned! Now I must pay for my godless crimes!”

I found my candle in its candle holder, the melted wax spilled over the carpet. I held the candle holder tight and stood up.

“Leave me alone!” I screamed, running towards the mirror.

I was crying, she was laughing.

I smashed the candle holder against the glass and watched as the furious angel broke into shiny shards.

The world went quiet.

“I am a good person, I am a good person…” I shuddered back and forth, my breath uneasy.

I picked up a broken glass shard with my shaky hands and found my own reflection crying back at me.

But in this reflection, the candle holder had been stabbed through my stomach. I looked down, and there it was, a semblance of my late husband’s body.

“I am the vice,” I murmured quietly when I dropped to the floor.

***

It was just after midnight, and the world was quiet. Even the crickets stopped chirping as they prepared for sleep.

But all who slept soundly that night, tucked beneath warm blankets, and wrapped around loving arms, were not killers. They were not sinners.

They were saints.

I am the vice, I am the vice, I am the vice…