Mirrored Droppings

Posted: 6 January, 2012 in Daily Droppings
Tags: , ,

Shuffle says “Pavlov’s Daughter” Regina Spektor, Eleven Eleven

I think this is the first full story I’ve posted up here. It’s still a first draft, till I decide what to do with it. Any feedback would be appreciated. Enjoy

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She sits against the wall of the alcove and lets the towel fall away. The mirror faces her. It’s clear now. The fog has left, too far from the shower head to last. She puts her feet flat, knees up and locks eyes with her Reflection.

The Reflection watches as she raises her hand and lets her fingers hang so the droplets roll off them. She keeps lifting them till tips touch the edges of her scalp. She traces her hairline with only the gentle pads of her middle and ring fingers till she reaches her temples and circles back, brushing out the water from her eyebrows. Then down the slope of her nose coming to its point where she pushes in on the cartilage and feels the divot that so few know about and less understand. Up her cheek bones, under eyes so the water mixes with inexplicable tears that fall over her lips. Full, sharp, and when the fingers leave, she licks them.

She uses all four now and her thumb as they glide under her chin down her trachea then expand to wrap around the fullness of her throat, squeezing just slightly so, then harder until spots appear in the mirror. When she releases herself the rush makes her feel high. She slides her fingers over her shoulders, pressing into the dips between her collar bones, sliding along her clavicle to that half moon where they meet at her sternum.

She runs them under her breasts, making  concentric circles inward until she reaches the peaks of her nipples. She circles her belly. Her soft round belly and runs her fingers like separate serpents though the tangles of pubic hair which hold such tiny drops on top of them like the meadow’s morning dew.

When the lock on the door clacked and jiggled and slid, then finally swung apart and open, the woman did not move. Instead, she remained staring down the Reflection. The door shut.  A long black wool jacket fell the floor.  And the man knelt beside her.

—Whatcha doin? he put his hand on the far side of her face and kissed the other.

—Just lookin, she turned breaking her gaze and kissed him back.

—You should be careful, he said. —There’s scary shit that lives in mirrors.

—Don’t be silly, she grabbed his face and the rain from his hair splattered across her chest —You’re soaking!

He grinned and began to kiss and bite her neck.

—Fuck you’re freezing!  she squealed —Get off!

He leaned back, took his boots and socks off, and sat diagonally from her next to the furnace to warm himself.

—Stay there until you’re warm and dried off.

He gave a short, low laugh and just smiled at her for a minute, then spoke.

—There are some people who believe that every moment you spend looking into a mirror takes that much time off your life.

—I’ll take my chances.

—Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

He shot her a knowing glance that ran the length of her. From her toes, stopping between her legs then straight at her eyes.

—Why don’t you warm me up? Looks like you’re already wet.

For the first time in what must have been hours, she leaned forward and moved out of view of the mirror, crawling on all fours into his lap and pushing him against the wall.

She was still wet from her first orgasm in the shower and he slid inside her with puzzle piece perfection. As if wetness was to be a theme for the evening, she pondered, sucking the rain water off his shoulders as it ran down from his neck, rung out of his hair like a rag. He, in turn, savored those clean tasting droplets that clung to her breasts – those fine fine pieces that had escaped her towel – and he continued to taste her as the condensation resting on her goosefleshed skin slowly transitioned into the saltwater of sweat.

Days later, she sat up in bed watching him undress with hunger, when he asked.

—What’s the story with the mirror?

—What do you mean?

—You spend a lot of time there. Do you just like looking at yourself that much, Narcissus?

—What can I say? I like spending time getting to know myself.  We have a very good relationship myself and I.

He crawled over her into bed, pausing to look her directly in the eyes.

—You are not your reflection.

—Of course. I know who I am.

He laid next to her pawing at her. Letting his hands run over her until he finally took her hands in his.

—Have you ever masturbated in front of a mirror? she asked

—No. Can’t say the notion makes me hot though. The thought of watching myself. I’m not sure I’d want to see what I look like in that state.

—You should. It becomes so much more than getting off, more than about pleasure. It’s like you’re fucking yourself.

He looked up at her.

—I’d rather fuck other people.

—You’ll never know, she said

He grabbed her by her hair and pulled her lips to his.

—Well I guess you’ll have to do, he whispered

She had rolled onto her side. He reached out to stroke her but there was no response. He stared at the tattoo on her neck a compass made out of strands of DNA with no cardinal directions, seemingly off its axis. Turned away from him, her eyes were open, her mind far away. Through the open doorway of their bedroom, down the hall to the alcove of the floor length mirror where she had fucked herself (or was she fucking her Reflection. Was there a difference?).

Later, she stood in that same place in the alcove still in her robe, as he dressed. Their conversations lately had waned and there was less fire in her touch. When they did fuck she was quieter and didn’t meet his gaze. It was raining again.

These days she seemed to subsist on coffee alone

—You should eat something, he told her, shouldering his bag

She nodded and mm-hmmed

—See you tonight

He kissed her and told her he loved her and she responded almost unconsciously.

The robe is at her feet and she’s standing this. She thinks it’s better this time. If that were possible. She comes harder than with him, or with herself, or with the showerhead, as if the orgasm is being ripped out of her by the jaws of life.

When she is finished, however, she can’t stop.

Her hands keep moving, fingers still flicking of their own accord. That hyper-sensitivity sets in and the movements against her become painful, but she continues. The rubbing against her clit, the pressing against her labia, the plunging inside her. She can’t feel her legs, now locked and keeping her standing.

She bites her lips, trying to distract herself from the pain. Hey eyes meet the Reflection, blood dripping from its wild grin. Its empty eyes. Tears stream down the woman’s face. She fights just to gain breath. Just enough to say

—Please

—Please stop this,

She’s not sure where the laugh comes from.

—You’re hurting me.

She rocks against the wall, banging her head, until she surges so violently forward, she falls, one hand catching her.

The hand slams open against the Reflection’s face. The sound comes first. A crunching almost like snow. And then she feels the bite of the dozen encircling glass teeth and then the pain and a sound of sucking like a school child at the water fountain. When she pulls away, there is a resistance akin to magnetism willing her hand to the mirror.  As her hand finally breaks free, she can feel the lightheadedness of blood loss.

seizing her wrist, she looks down to see blood begin to pool at the base of her palm.

She returned to the mirror after binding her cut and treating it with the first aid kit in the bathroom, though she had first soaked through a kitchen rag.

The mirror was whole again. Unbroken. The only evidence of her struggle was a small red smudge.

She stayed away from the mirror for some time.

It was the first time they had had sex in weeks and it was empty. He could tell. She could tell. It was functional, almost mechanical.

She knew she would be back. She had to know why.

The mirror knew she would be back. It had known from the very beginning.

They didn’t speak when he left in the morning. Though he kissed her and ran his fingers through her hair as he had often before. She returned with an vacant smile.

When he walked out the door, it was the first time they had ever parted without saying I love you since the first time they had said those words to each other so long ago.

The woman grabs the whole thing by its sides and tears it off the wall, mirror pins springing from the plaster, and brings the object crashing to the floor. She falls on top of it, striking at the Reflection over and over.

The mirror howls in pain and bites back at her.  The Reflection laughs at her silently and meets her blow for blow, each time lightly touching and dismissing her frenzy at split and fractured angles.

Then the blood comes. It comes in spurts and lashes, in waves and bursts. It comes like her orgasms, shuddering and making her head swim.  It comes in droplets wet like the rain on her window falling from the roof and making the pavement wet. Wetting the glass. Soaking the earth.  Soaking the wooden backing behind the glass. Filling the tiny rivulets in the cracks of the concrete.  Seeping in between the shards of glass as some infinitely forking body of water.

And finally it comes like the ending of all such events. The post coital sleepiness, the quiet after the storm, the hard silence following the screams of pain. And when it is over the reflection sucks on it all until it was dry.

The man came home that night to a quiet house. The woman wasn’t at her desk, nor was she on the couch, or in the bedroom, or bath.  Nor was she at her favorite alcove across from the mirror which had fallen from the wall and lay face down on the carpet. Strange.

He picked it up fumbled around for the mirror pins scattered around the floor and mounted it back  on its usual place on the wall of the alcove between the living room and the office. The sunlight from the after-stormy sky bounced on it through the window and gave it an almost blood red hue.

Didn’t it?

His Reflection grinned at him just so as he began to walk away to look for her.

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