The treeline encroached at the base of a grassy swell, of which House Valentine rested atop the earth's bloated carcass. Struggling to stand under the pressure of time as if the remnants of the house were the echo less infinite's fading memory of Valentine nobility and wealth. Now completely isolated as the town with the closest proximity seemed to have died sometime ago. It's name I have only known as Wenham. It's beating heart slowly stopped as the wood thickened and choked its veins and arteries that allowed life to travel hither to and fro, past Nahum's blasted heath.
"Mirrors betray you. Dishonest, a type of lie. They reflect a cold shallow version of yourself. As weak and brittle as the glass of which the mirror is made."
This is the motif of Dorian Valentine. Surly they would engrave this on his headstone if there were to be one. For on this day his sole heir Montay Valentine would lay him to rest. Montay had lived alone in the mirror less house with his father and the servant. Whose name has been lost in the years since the event I am attempting to detail to you here. Dorian was a haunted man who left Montay to his own devices. This meant Montay would have to educate himself. He studied the many books in his father's library. You see, over the years the Valentines had amassed a large collection of books rich with various subjects from science, mathematics, cartograghy to the occult.
However having never seen his own reflection, Montay developed a deep interest in art. Or rather the art of capturing one's likeness. He became reclusive to his room. Painting self portraits for years succumbing to a unique obsession with himself. Or with a type of discovery or revelation of one's self. When he finished a work he thought a true retelling of himself. He would proudly present it to Dorian, But his father was not easily impressed. Dorian would take his time and with great detail list the differences between Montay and his portrait. After countless fruitless attempts Montay concluded. The light his father had shown on him must have scaled his eyes. For he was still incapable of convincing Dorian and the servant to agree or admit to the resemblance between himself and his work.
Although house Valentine had heretofore been void of reflection. Montay would not suffer this to remain. For on the day Montay Valentine would restore his father to dry bones. He commanded the servant to fetch a mirror. The furnace made a lackluster retort and before the husk could return to its basic elements the servant had returned with the requested mirror. Montay lost himself in the visage. He had the structure mostly accurate, the sharp jaw and raised cheekbones but Montay never would have been able to predict the enophthalmia or the resulting tear trough hollows. His pale integument draped over his wiry frame. Montay lurked over the simulacrum as he reflected into the early hours of the morning. Absorbing every detail he would use to perfect his portrait.
Until the illusion was broken if only for a fraction of a second. The precision of which his impersonator kept pace with his movements was delayed. Leaning in for closer inspection the subsequent motions were not ones you would expect with any rational thinking. Montay could never have prepared himself for the corresponding reactions. The man in the mirror grabbed him by the throat.
Stepping out of the dark reflector and forcing him to the ground. One thought flashed in Montay's mind. His father's words proved both precise and wildly inaccurate. For this particle refraction was not fragile at all but strong and dense like an oak. He unleashed a savage beating upon him. Seemingly only satisfied when his prey lay fetal in the mire of its blood. Yet with clear signs of life, Montays eyes shivered and he wept.
The effect produced by his influence drug him out of the room, down the spiral stairs leading to the lower levels of the house. No amount of screaming for the servants' aide brought forth yield. Even as they passed the servants quarters his cries echoed as empty as the halls they inhabited.
Out the door through the yard and down the swell to the edge of the wood a hole awaited their arrival. Montay, sure of his fate, wanted to flee but could only muster a whimper. Simultaneously with the final shovel of dirt blanketing the last Valentine, he awoke. Picking himself up off the floor in front of the mirror from where he could only assume he had fallen asleep. With a new distrust of mirrors he ordered the servant to get rid of the betrayer.
I know not the timeline or sequence of the subsequent events. Nor do I know details. Nevertheless I will address the facts my mind retained as important. Montay withdrew to perfect his portrait. He knew exactly how he were to be portrayed but he could not as all the colours painted grey. I can not say with any kind of certainty whether this took place before the servant had labeled him mad. Or after he made his way to the ledge of the tower window. Where he pondered the differences between a leap and a fall. What I can state as a matter of absolute fact. From that ledge he saw an episodic trigger that fired electricity down his spine. For at the edge of the treeline was disrupted life. A patch of freshly turned soil, an unmarked grave.
Overwhelmed with curiosity he inquired with the servant. Who had no satisfactory explanation. With this he commanded the servant to dig. What they would uncover is something no man could have fathomed. Much-less be expected to comprehend. For there lay Montay Valentine.
