MirrorMirror

24 / The Idiocy

The human mind is a strange contraption, and not one we are fully in control of.

Our thoughts can be happily skipping along a path we're sure we know, subconsciously, where it might lead. Suddenly, those thoughts are tripped up by a mischievous notion, wishing to drag them onto a totally different, and much more tortuous, route. The end of that route is completely unseen. They might also be random, with no discernible course. Popping like corn in a microwave.

Cassidy had been pleased that Amy was being more open. He could get answers. He could, potentially, even help free her from the mirror so she could... do whatever spirits needed to do. Heaven or Hell or McDonald's.

There was a Maccies everywhere. Three existed in his town, with another two in its neighbour. Who was to say you weren't able to grab a Big Tasty with bacon, medium fries, and a vanilla milkshake once you'd departed this mortal realm? Perhaps a Fillet-O-Flesh or Chicken Leg-end?

Do you see?

Rid of her? Where did that come from? At first, perhaps, but now he was intrigued. Now, he had a personal connection to Amy through Jazz. She had taken his convictions about life and death, and shoved them on a high spin cycle. The resulting amalgamation was a brand new viewpoint. One he needed to explore. Ghosts didn't exist, so what was the difference between that and a spirit? Or ghoul? Shade? Which name applied to her? Did any?

Curiosity had killed the cat, but what had killed Amy? Or, more accurately, who? She was murdered, and her killer had never been found.

Could he solve the mystery?

Cass was a fan of crime stories. Or certain ones. Serial killers. Sherlock Holmes. He'd taken part in murder mystery nights on two occasions. The first was entirely amateur, but all the more fun for it. The second was much more professional. The cast, and some patrons, were dressed in the 1920s outfits and played their parts to perfection. They mingled with the guests in a restaurant, never breaking character, and the crime happened during the meal.

He had failed miserably at figuring out the identity of the perpetrator. The clues were there, yet he pieced them together as if his puzzle was a bowl of Cornflakes, none fitting together, and the only solution was to pour milk on them and consume them.

What made him think he could be successful this time? And why should he? Didn't he have a 'get out of jail free' card in his tenancy agreement? He could change his mind within the first fourteen days, right?

Don't be stupid, man. It wasn't a new pair of jeans. It wasn't a toaster. He'd agreed to six months on the lease, so he was going nowhere. He assumed Amy was in the same situation, although she probably didn't sign anything to take up residency in the mirror.

OK. He'd don his imaginary deerstalker and see what game was afoot, Watson.

She'd asked how he relaxed. That was easy.

"I listen to music," he said. "Watch movies, play video games, do a little writing."

What do you write?

He hadn't expected to add that little snippet. His writing was something he'd learned to mostly keep to himself. Too many people had made fun of his hobby. It didn't stop him writing his introspective poems, but it did stop him talking about it. Who would Amy tell, though? The mirror wasn't like the paintings at Hogwarts. She couldn't move between them for a few drinks and a natter with her friends.

"A bit of poetry, that's all. Nothing much."

Maybe you'll read some to me one day.

"It's not very good," he admitted.