Shadow Things

XII

There was a mirror in Hansel's bedroom. It had come with the house, large and oval and rimmed with decorative brass. But Hansel had no use for a mirror; or more precisely, he did not have the confidence to look into one. So he had thrown an old curtain on top of it, covering it completely, then pushed it into the shadow of the wardrobe across his bed where it would be forgotten over time.

But that wasn't the only mirror in the house; there was one more, nailed to the wall above the washbasin in the bathroom. It was a small, edgeless rectangle that reflected badly, distorting light as though there was steam trapped inside the glass, or smoke. Looking into it felt like looking through a bad camera lens, only to see oneself on the other side, edges smudgy and colours dulled, like the image had been put through a poor filter.

And it was into this mirror Hansel stared late evening next day. Not because he had suddenly acquired the courage to do so, more because he would never be looking into a mirror again and he was curious. What did he look like when he knew this was the last time?

He had not slept last night; he had not slept earlier in the day either, even though he had skipped school and had had ample time to do so; and this lack of sleep, coupled with the bone-deep fatigue he had been accumulating for a long time showed on his face as starkly as a beam of light or a word of truth—existent and irrefutable. He looked every bit a weary, anguished boy.

His face was pasty white, almost as white as his hair, and the skin beneath his eyes were permanently limned the colour of rainclouds, bluish-grey and unhealthy, reminiscent of cold and tears and graveyard gloom. His lips were chapped and his cheeks were hollow, and the cuts and bruises covering half his face had darkened to mustard-black and purple-indigo. But worst of all were his eyes.

Hansel forced himself to look into his own eyes. They were the softest brown, gentle brown, looking all anxious and fragile in the dimness of the closed space, but for once they did not seem blank or empty, instead it looked like there was a wealth of feelings contained within, waiting to be excavated and studied.

In those eyes he saw himself for who he was. A young boy who was old for his age, broken and melancholy. A boy who had lived and lost, given and taken, hoped and despaired. A boy who had been worshipped and trampled on. Loved and hated. Cheered for and jeered at. A boy who had held on for so long and a boy who was now giving up.

That is enough, he told himself. What you have seen is enough.

He let his eyes drop from the reflection, and they fell on the razor blade placed neatly atop the washbasin, ready to be used. Hansel picked up the blade gingerly, then checked the door to the bathroom. Once he had confirmed that it was locked securely he went towards the closet built into the opposite wall. The closet was white and pristine; of course, it was, Hansel had been forced to clean it three weeks ago, scrub every inch of it until it sparkled. He closed its lid with a shaky hand and sat down on top of it. There was a small window above him, half-open, revealing a rapidly darkening sky outside. The inside was dimming as well, complementing the atmosphere outside, but there was still enough light for Hansel to find where the veins in his wrist were.

His probing fingers first skimmed over the blister Julian had given him a day ago, and traced a lazy, whimsical circle around it once. Then he brought the shining razor blade to his wrist, pinched between thumb and forefinger, and rested it upon the green veins that showed through his pale skin. The razor glinted evilly, catching a strip of moonlight. Hansel breathed in deep, preparing himself for what he was to do next.

And then he cut his wrist open.

It was fascinating, the way the blood welled up and spilled over, dribbling down his hand and splashing on the cool tiles below. It flowed a rich, dark shade in the damping light; red as roses, red as rubies, red as rusted knives. Hypnotised, Hansel watched it pour out of him.