Happy Halloween weekend everyone! I can't believe how fast October went. Here's a story to set your spine a-tingling:
DEELA
When we are young, long nights are expected guests, welcomed and patted drunkenly on the back and perhaps even toasted if enough coherence exists in the room and a glass can be found that hasn’t been emptied of the last drop. As we get older, and sleep becomes more and more irresistible, a long night now means one of two things: extraordinary celebration or exceptional disaster. Unfortunately for Charlie Holman and myself, tonight falls into the latter category. Charlie’s girl has gone missing, and as his best mate it’s my duty to visit his house and bring a large enough supply of beer to distract his thoughts or at least provide a shoulder to cry on if he can’t find his way out of the gray in-between of intoxicated sentimentality. As far as I can tell, he is still fighting his way through the mist, and a look in his eyes tells me something more than blind sorrow is gnawing at him, making it impossible for the alcohol to numb his head. I wait for him to speak his mind, though. A mate shouldn’t pry, unless perhaps, he has good reason.
“Magee,” Charlie says finally, as he peels the label on his fifth bottle. “What would you say if I told you I saw Deela today?”
“Did you?” I start, nearly spilling my drink.
“I don’t know...Yes? No, no, God I wish I could say.”
“Well, did you tell the police? Where was she? Did you speak to her?” I can barely contain myself. It has been a week and half since anyone has heard from Deela. I’m suddenly furious at Charlie’s seeming confusion. “Pull yourself together man,” I snap. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
Charlie’s face crumples. “No, I haven’t told anyone. I can’t even be sure. I can’t—” His eyes well with tears, and he swallows and looks towards the kitchen window to his left, but something he sees there seems to make him quiver even more.
“Charlie, what’s going on?” I ask, beginning to wonder if perhaps this is only the work of exaggerated drunken irrationality. Perhaps he had simply come across her picture somewhere earlier and her tiny glossed face had stuck with him and grew into a full-bodied projection with every increase of his BAC.
“I found her diary this morning,” Charlie says. “And I read it thinking maybe it could help, you know? Maybe I’d find some clue. I think I’m going mad.”
“For reading her diary under these circumstances? I’d do it for less,” I tell him, running down the list of unreadable women who have baffled me throughout the years.
“No, I mean after. But I’m not sure. Will you read it too? If you see it too then it’s not me. Then it has to be true.”
“I don’t know what you’re going on about,” I say. “I’ll do whatever you want me to.”
Charlie gets up from the table and goes into the living room. He returns a few minutes later with a little leather notebook, painted with a pretty swirl of colours and shapes like so many of the belongings of the opposite sex.
“The first half is regular stuff,” says Charlie. “Day to day, nothing out of the ordinary, a little about me.” His face flushes and he coughs. I stifle a grin. “But here, start here” he says, pointing to an entry at the bottom of the page before resuming his seat and taking a gulp from his bottle. I sit back in my own chair and begin to read.
June 6, 2010
What an odd day. This morning I woke up in one of those melancholy moods where everything seems gray. I think it’s the weather. I just feel so sad sometimes, but I can’t figure out why. Yes, it has to be the weather. Isn’t there a name for that? Solar Affective Disorder? Or seasonal? I can’t remember. The acronym spells SAD though, which is funny. I wonder if they did that on purpose.
Anyway, Charlie and I were supposed to spend the day together, but he ended up having to go into the office even though it was Sunday. I didn’t want to be cooped up in the house, so I thought I would go for a walk and maybe do some shopping. That always puts me in a better mood. I ended up downtown near this little antique shop I’ve been meaning to explore. There’s something about the atmosphere of antique shops that soothe me. I always feel safe in the cramped aisles with that mustiness—no, not mustiness per se, just the smell of, well I guess nostalgia. It reminds me of being a kid at Grandma’s house, the way there was always a particular smell of memory and familiarity. It always smells like patches of sun on a wood floor, even when it’s dark.
This place was lovely. Rows and rows of shelves full of china and silver, empty tins, boxes of postcards and yellowing prints. There was a cabinet of jewellery, shelves of those old books that look so pretty even if they’re completely worthless volumes of unknown people’s biographies and dried-up histories. Further back in the store was furniture and random knick-knacks—vases, paintings, toys, lamps, clothes. I always like to look at the clothes even though I’d never buy them from a place like this. They’re so raggedy and moth-eaten, and of course out of style. Still, it reminds me of how I used to play dress up when I was younger. Mom had a little chest in the basement with clothes and shoes she had probably picked up from a place like this. I always used to feel so beautiful. I’m sure the feminists would stone me, but I wouldn’t mind going back in time to when those long, poofy dresses were all the rage. Everyone was so glamorous then.
Anyway, right behind the rack of clothes was this big old fashioned mirror. It was a tall rectangle with a slight outward curve at the bottom and a high, ornate arch on the top. The edges were thick and gold-coloured, and carved in an elaborate design of vines with a blossom growing out of the top centre. In the middle of the petals was a small red stone, cut in a horizontal ellipse. It reminded me rather of an eye, and to be honest, it frightened me. This beautiful, antique mirror made me shiver. Of course, then I had to examine it more closely, because those things that make me uneasy have such a draw to them, that I can never resist the satisfaction of a good scare. Blame it on my nature, of human nature for that matter. We are afraid of ghost stories, but always wish we had our own to share.
There was enough of a gap between the clothes rack and the wall that I was able to squeeze behind and look at the mirror with only a couple of inches separating us. I ran my finger down the frame and looked into its glass, first only taking in the background—the soft overcoats padding my back against the poke of hangers and the front window of the shop like another little painting among the antiquities it revealed to the passer-bys. There was nothing scary there, unless of course, the reflection was hiding a shadowy figure reaching towards the back of my head, but a quick glance over my shoulder assured me I was quite safe. Then I turned my attention to my own face in the glass.
It sounds so vain, but I looked incredibly pretty. Mind you, I’m not the sort of girl who never feels ugly, I mean I am what I am, and I accept that. I’m definitely not unfortunate looking, but I’m not flawless. Only this mirror...made me flawless. Charlie always makes fun of my ‘chipmunk cheeks’ as he calls them (I just call them my chubby face) but somehow the shadows of the shop shaped them in delicate angles, and the curve of my chin led to a graceful slope of neck with no trace of the slight roll of fat that emerges when I forget to hold my head in just the right way. My eyes, which are always too squinty, were wide and shining, deep underwater green. My hair even looked bouncy and full even though it’s so thin and always going flat. I looked exquisite—even unearthly.
Of course it could’ve been anything. Like in photographs that capture you at your best with good light and a genuine expression—it’s just luck and a good photographer. But still, it was so interesting. I was rather curious how it would show me at home, and anyway, it would match the bedspread if I hung it up in our room, so I bought it. I showed it to Charlie when he came home for dinner, but I don’t think he really cared. I suppose that’s better than him hating it. I’ve hung it up next to the window so I can use it in the morning to do my makeup while Charlie’s in the bathroom. It seems so silly that I was ever afraid of it.
June 8, 2010
Oh my God, what is happening? This morning I woke up feeling ready to take on the world and now all I want to do is cry. I could kill whats-her-face big boob girl. I was in such a good mood I decided to surprise Charlie at lunchtime but when I got there that thing in her low cut little summer dress was actually sitting on his desk flirting with him. I knew she had the hots for him. Knew it, knew it, knew it! I should have told her off at the May Day barbeque, but I thought I WAS MAKING IT UP. False. She is a Slutty McSlut with no shame. Oh my God, the most embarrassing part is that I thought I was hot as hell when I walked in there, but then I caught a glimpse of my face in the glass wall and realized I looked like shit. My skin was all oily and my hair was sticking up like Medusa’s. I was so aghast that I couldn’t even say anything to her because girls like her always look radiant. FUCK!!! And of course Charlie couldn’t go to lunch. Said he had “some stuff to finish.” I’m going to throw up.
Later:
Okay, did not throw up, but something weird is going on. I looked like death when I looked in the bathroom mirror, but when I walked back to the bed where I’m sitting to write, I glanced in the gold mirror and I looked like I did in the antique shop. If I would have looked like that when I went into Charlie’s office, he wouldn’t have looked twice at McSlut. He wouldn’t have been able to keep his hands off me. It must be the glass. It’s made differently than the mirror in the bathroom. It has to be. God, I wish it was the real reflection.
June 10, 2010
Home early from work. I’m not well. I couldn’t stop looking at my face in the screen of my turned-off computer. I look positively ghastly. My skin is sagging, there are dark circles under my eyes and you can see the veins under my skin. I just need to sleep. I’m not well.
June 11, 2010
I slept all day yesterday, and I feel much better. Charlie was worried when I told him I came home from work sick, but he says I look fine. He says he wouldn’t have even guessed that I was sick. I’m going to believe him. I’m just going to go about my day without worrying about how I look. Charlie thinks I look fine. That is good enough for me.
June 12, 2010
It’s strange, but it as if I’m avoiding looking at myself. Even just walking past shop windows, my eyes seem to stare at the ground of their own accord. It’s as if they’re afraid of something that I’m unaware of. That’s silly isn’t it? Impossible. I can look at myself if I want to. In fact, I’ll do it right now.
Yes. There. I’m writing as I look in the bedroom mirror. There I am. Smiling. See? There’s nothing to be afraid of.
No.no.no.no.no.no.no.no. I can’t
No.
Naked in the bathroom mirror...
I’m old. I’m shrivelled and wrinkled and old.
Oh God, I’m untouchable!
Please let it be a lie a trick anything. Please, anything but this. Oh there. Look, this face, this beautiful, perfectly formed loveliness...She’s so young and vibrant. Just a girl, really. Forever just a lovely, lovely girl.
I reread the last thing written in the diary and set it on the table. Charlie is staring at me.
“It sounds to me like a case of low self-esteem,” I tell him. “Deela’s a cute girl. Not decrepit by any means.”
“Deela was beautiful,” says Charlie.
“Was?” I ask.
Charlie traces a wood grain on the tabletop without saying anything. His forehead is shiny with sweat. What is he hiding?
“Charlie, did she—were you—involved with that girl at work?”
Charlie breaks. He lays his face on the table and sobs.
“She found out and left you, didn’t she?” I press. “Why didn’t you say anything? People think she’s been kidnapped.”
“She didn’t leave,” cries Charlie. “She didn’t leave.”
He is too pathetic to contradict. I cross my arms and wait for him to get a hold of himself. Finally, his sniffling subsides.
“Come see the mirror,” he says. “Just come look at it. Please?”
“Come on, man. I don’t want to be harsh, but you have to face up to the facts. She’s gone. Did she come back to get her things today? Is that when you saw her?”
“Come see the mirror!” Charlie screams. He springs up from the table and runs upstairs. I follow him, scared of what he will do in his drunken mania. He runs into the open doorway at the end of the hall and comes to a dead stop in the middle of the darkened bedroom. I stop in the doorway and see Deela’s golden-framed mirror hung up on the wall in front of him, but Charlie isn’t looking at it. He’s staring at the floor.
“What do you want me to see?” I ask.
“What it shows,” says Charlie, pointing up at the mirror without looking at it. I flip the light switch next to the door and approach it. The red gem at the top glimmers. It really is like an eye. I run my fingers over the golden vines. The metal is warm to my touch. I look into the glass. I see my face looking exactly like it should. The bedroom behind me looking exactly like a bedroom should—Charlie behind me staring at the ground in rigid expectation.
“It seems to be working fine, bud,” I say. This is going to be quite a funny story to retell when he’s sober. Scared to death of a mirror. He’s going to be rolling. But for right now, it’s probably safer to put it away. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.
“I’ll just tuck it in the closet for now, yeah?” I say without turning around, as I take hold of the mirror’s edges and lift it up from the bracket it hangs on. I hear Charlie let out a gasp.
“It’s alright, I got it.” I press the bottom edge against my waist while cradling it in my arms and look at the reflection of the ceiling and upper walls behind me.
Deela scuttles across the ceiling like a voluptuous spider, ruby red lips full and plump with blood, her eyes dark and sparkling, wavy brown hair swaying as her upside-down face smiles at me. I scream and drop the mirror, whirling around with my arms above my head to shield myself. The ceiling is empty and white. I turn to Charlie. He lies crumpled on the floor, a few scattered shards of glass glinting like diamonds in the pool of blood flowing from the tear in his throat.
