Through the Glass, Darkly

The pain would stop eventually. It had to.

Sooner or later, he would stop the agony; stop the throbbing sensation that threatens to tear me apart. He will give up, realise he's got it all wrong and walk away. He'll turn his back and leave.

And the pain will stop.

His name is Crowe – at least that's what the bald guy called him. It doesn't really matter what his name is. What matters is how he makes me feel. With little more than a bucket of water and piece of contorted wood, he's evoked so much torment in me. I don't want to think about it. The more I think, the less I understand.

What kind of devilry is this? What evil possesses this man to bring such unimaginable suffering down on me? A splash of water, a strike of wood against my skin, and I wish I'd never been born.

I've never drowned before. Not really. I've imagined it many times. I've dreamed of dark blue depths and my body sinking slowly into the gloom. I've wondered what it would feel like to choke on the very substance that makes up the majority of my body. But I never imagined it would feel like this.

The water burns my skin. The wood drinks my flesh.

I've never felt anything so – lifeless.

Crowe circles behind me. His skeletal hands brush my shoulders. He picks at the frayed wool around my neckline. The touch of his skin against mine is a welcome relief.

He draws his hand away abruptly and circles me three times. Three times. And each time he passed my face, he hisses and spits at me. Hisses and spits and barks.

The bald man watches in silence.

Eventually, Crowe stops his pacing. He stands in front of me breathing heavily through his bladed nose.

'Do you know what makes you so different?'

It had been so long since he'd last spoken. I'd forgotten how nasally his voice sounds. He dips his fingers into the bucket of water at my feet and swirls them back and forth. The burning water ripples invitingly. With a sharp jerk of his head, Crowe nods to the full-length mirror stood a few feet to my left.

'Look at yourself, Jonathan.'

I want to. If there were anything that can stop the pain, I'd gladly do it. But no matter how much I will myself to look, I can't bring myself to do it. I can't turn my head. Something is holding me back, and it's not the steel-wire restraints.

Crowe leans a little closer. I can smell the teeming sweat on his sweat. His hand flicks out of the water bowl and a dozen razors slice my skin. The water droplets dig deep into the tissue, burrowing towards my muscles, and then they vanish without so much as a mark.

I taste metal in my mouth. My throat burns with every breath I take. A trickle of blood meanders down my cheek.

'Look at yourself.' Crowe glares hard into my eyes. 'You can't, can you? You can't do it. You can't look at yourself because you know, deep inside, that you're not really there...'

The man is insane. He must be. That's the only explanation that makes any kind of sense.

'Do you know what most people see when they look into a mirror?'

Crowe retreats back, settling down, cross-legged on the floor. He peers up at me. There's a look in his eyes – wonder. He stares at me as though I'm something unique, something new. There's nothing new about me. I'm just like everybody else.

The bald man looks on vacantly.

'They see their own reflection,' Crowe continues, tapping his legs excitedly on the floor. 'They see themselves as they were a split second in the past – or rather how they'd wish to be seen. You see, we very rarely see ourselves as we actually are, how other people see us.' He pauses for a moment. 'What do you see when you look in the mirror, Mister Barker?'