Reflections

[Genophan]

A short tale, which isn’t something I really tend do very much of; but it was just something haunting my thoughts and it has been for a while and writing it tonight seems as good a way to excise myself of it as any.

gnihtemos t’nsi hcihw ,elat trohs A ;fo hcum yrev od dnet yllaer I sthguoht ym gnitnuah gnihtemos tsuj saw ti tub thginot ti gnitirw dna elihw a rof neeb sah ti dna esicxe ot yaw a doog sa smees .yna sa ti fo flesym

Reflections

Mirrors …they are a curious thing, they have this way about them that the longer you stare into them the deeper they seem to stare back and strip your soul bare.. I try to stop myself from looking, but each time I am drawn hopelessly back to its silent allure.. Why is it that every time I look into this I see that haunted waif looking back at me, is that truly what I am?. The longer I look at her the harder it is for me to remember anything other that that grim manifestation staring back at me with her hollow gaze.. I feel sometimes that I am in one of the those Japanese horror flicks, you know the ones; the ones that are steeped in ‘psychological’ horror and supposed to prey on the senses rather than the flesh and usually involve those things caught on the edges of vision to scare and shock as opposed to the all out gore of their Western counterparts..

My fingers reach out and touch against the cold glassy reflection as I ‘touch’ her cheek, she doesn’t respond, she just stares back at me with a delicate wetness misting the corner of her eye.. There’s nothing I can do for her though, she seems to have no memory of anything other than this.. There is evidence to the contrary of course, Of course and I have had enough of that ‘paraded’ in front of me as my family mill around me with all the sensitivity they are able to; turning the conversation towards happier times, of times before the ‘event’ and thrusting photographs in front of my face and say such contrite things as … “Do you remember when….” Well, I do remember, but its like looking at someone else’s life, snapshots of a someone I only barely recognise as myself and all I do I muster a smile and try to give them what they want so that they feel some vindication for their efforts, which is ironic really as it means that I am helping them through this rather than the other way around..

They cannot understand, nor have I any right to expect them too, the only way they could know what I feel inside, the hollowness, the desolation and that strange sense of self loathing,. was if they themselves had experienced it, and of course I wouldn’t wish that upon them.. At the same time though I cannot maintain a mask of pretence for long before I end up staring through those pictures of me with that playful smile on my face and seeing the girl there stripped away to the meaningless shade that gazes back at me in that bloody mirror.

Why is it I see this and nobody else does, at least, nobody else professes to do so.. They just carry on around me as though nothing has transcended the norm, they know of course, they ‘lived’ through the exposure and the resulting turmoil that, although went unnoticed by the world at large,. hit us pretty bad; me worst of all …of course, but there are times when I think I am the only one that can seemingly ‘handle it’.. There is only so much of their ‘normality’ that I can take before I have to make my excuses and slip away to my room. I am sure they do it for their own good reasons, thinking that creating a cocoon of ‘normality’ around me will help to bring me back to them.. It doesn’t; if anything it only hammers home harder just what it is that was stripped from me and makes me feel all the less normal for it, for it makes me aware of exactly what it was that I lost that night.. Not that I want people fawning over me and asking if they can do anything for me …or if I am alright and maybe I should take a lie down and focus my mind on something else.. That wouldn’t help either.. Shit! I am too lost within myself to know what would help anyway and so I just find myself lying on top of the bed sheets, night after night, staring up at the ceiling as though I am watching that night play before my eyes on the big screen. There’s only one person I know that actually understands what it is that I am going through and she simply stands in haunting silence on the other side of this mirror.. .I wish I could reach out to her, to brush my fingers against her soft skin and to wipe the jewelled tears that bead against the corners of those once lively azure eyes and tell her that its …that it is …I don’t know what to tell her in truth.

I sit up on my bed, the window is open a fraction and I can feel the soft chill of the night air slides around me, my eyes turn towards the darkness and soundlessly I slip out into the night.. I do most nights, looking for something I can never regain, making my way back there …to the bridge by the river..

Why is it I find myself here?. Anyone would think that this is the last place I would want to be, but here I am; sat with my knees bunched up against my chin and staring out across the river with the passionless steel skeleton of the bridge overhead.. The endless drone of vehicles passing over it are the only sound now to keep me company where as before they acted only to drown out my screams, my pleas, my fear.. Its strange, but I would tell you that I feel ‘safe’ here now, its like the passing through the quiet of a graveyard under the watchful gaze of the moonlight.. It is a world filled with shadows and darkness …but, there is nothing left there to be frightened off anymore, not now.

It’s the only place I can feel safe anymore, the only place that still has that lingering ghost of who I was.. Not that I think I can recapture her, what I was is gone and lost for all time, but, if I close my eyes just for a moment I swear that I can almost hear myself coming along this river side path, approaching the grandeur of the cities landmark bridge, with each step bringing me closer to my eventual fate.. I had no reason to be out that night, none at all, I could quite as easily have stayed home and very nearly did.. One throw away choice made and one life thrown away as a result of it..

Maybe there’s another reason though, It is something that my mind reflects upon each and every time I look against the mirror image of myself.. Its not just me that I see but also the reflection of him in those once effervescent eyes..

I rise and walk across towards the river bank, the water looks cold even with the beat of the sun on it all day.. I cannot see into it and, like the reflection of my eyes in the mirror it just stares back at me and I cannot help but wonder to what secrets lie beneath its cold glassy surface.. It would be so easy to just take one more step forward, after all anyone who has ever attempted to impart good advice to me in some delusional placation of doing some good has said to me to… ‘Take it one step at a time, never look back, always forward.’

Excuse me, but, what a crock of shit.

No matter how many steps forward you take, you can still feel the shadows of the past breathing softly against your neck, a constant reminder that your past is always there and always will be.. it’s a part of who you are and as much as you try not to, it will always lend some affect to future choices.. A sardonic smile slowly makes itself known against my expression.. One more step forward and I could follow their advice, or at least a twisted version of it that would leave that ironic smile on my face as I let the cold embrace of the river take it all my lingering memories away.

But …you know what, I can’t.. There was a time when I could have and over the months I have run the gamete of emotions where I could break down in tears at any given moment or been consumed by the most intense rage that would cause me to lash out to those who cared about me, or, directed towards myself.. Now though I just feel empty, cold, devoid of feeling for anything, including myself, to the point where now I don’t even care enough about myself to end it.. I try to make sense of this, but I unsure where the thoughts come from..

I fish a crumpled newspaper article from my pocket, the top of the scrap of paper is dated two weeks ago.. The article is brief and emotionless and the general gist of it relates the information that after serving three years incarceration he is to be released back into the world..

I wonder what he is like now …I wonder if he is haunted by what he did or did he lie awake in his cell with a twisted smile on his face as he relived the event in his memory each night; my violation keeping him company through the long dark hours of lockdown.. If there was any warmth left in my own heart then I would have shivered at the notion of that, but it is every bit as likely as cold as the depths of that river now.. However, most of all though, I wonder whether he will be afflicted, for whatever reason, whether through remorse or the sadistic pleasure of reliving his act, in returning to the scene as I do.. In staring out across the same river as I, night after night.

My back presses against the same cold stone wall that his did as he watched me take my fateful steps towards his ‘lair’ as he lay hidden from me in shadows and the detritus of the forgotten face of the city.. .I have often wondered what would happen to should one of these nights ever play out as my jumbled thoughts tease towards.. How would I react if I saw him walking along the pathway in the amber glow of the lights under the bridge.

I look down to the small flick knife nestled in my palm and release the catch, with a thin ‘chink’ the thin metal blade thrusts from the mock wooden handle.. Should his resolve ever weaken and he find himself in contemplative reflection of what he did to me …then he will find more than just memories waiting here for him.


Thank you for reading this far.  No rape you say, weeeeell, I admit, this story is more semi autobiographical than anything else, but work is underway on a sequel that might make a few of you squirm -grins-

[Sprayman]

True - no rape - at least nothing actually written. An interesting and well-written story never the less. I'm giving you author status, so that you can lounge in the author's corner.

Let's see where this tale goes from here...

[Violet]

True, no actual rape - but still loved it.  Had me glued to my computer screen whilst reading it.
Powerful.

[Genophan]

Thankee Sprayman. Glad you liked it.  There are few  things as potent as exploring the mind, and few things as scintillating as the 'mindfuck' Oooh, and thank you for the status as well, I noticed my name has turned a delicious shade of red ...sure it won't come as a surprise to know that 'red' is by far my favourite color!

Thank you Violet! I am glad that you enjoyed reading it It was an intense piece to write for a number,most notably, for me anyhow, because of where  its roots lie.

[Sprayman]

Thankee Sprayman. Glad you liked it.  There are few  things as potent as exploring the mind, and few things as scintillating as the 'mindfuck' Oooh, and thank you for the status as well, I noticed my name has turned a delicious shade of red ...sure it won't come as a surprise to know that 'red' is by far my favourite color!

Thank you Violet! I am glad that you enjoyed reading it It was an intense piece to write for a number,most notably, for me anyhow, because of where  its roots lie.

Glad you like the new color of your name. That was one small byproduct of becoming an author that I thought you might enjoy. Somehow, I had already thought that you might like red. Not sure why... perhaps I'm psychic...! LOL

Love the pictures you've embedded in your posts too!

[Quixote]

That's lovely work.

Although you might not know it from the way I write, I am a firm believer in implication rather than explication.  And you do it _so_ nice.

[Genophan]

Glad you like the new color of your name. That was one small byproduct of becoming an author that I thought you might enjoy. Somehow, I had already thought that you might like red. Not sure why... perhaps I'm psychic...! LOL Love the pictures you've embedded in your posts too! Well, tis certainly a much appreciated by-product -grins- I think it must be down to some psychic gift as ....I always thought I was able to keep my love of crimson and rubies very much underwraps I am glad you like them ...I have several thousand of them ...seriously -grins-

That's lovely work. Although you might not know it from the way I write, I am a firm believer in  implication rather than explication.  And you do it _so_ nice. Thankee for your comments Quixote. I am humbled by your words, but you are right, the implication can be a very powerful writers tool that has the ability to reach deep into the psyche of the reader

[Quixote]

Somehow you don't seem the humble type.  :-)

[Genophan]

Somehow you don't seem the humble type.  :-) -chuckles- Yeah, I know, I am awesome lol ;) Seriously though, I think like probably most writers I am a prolific self critic and often think my writing is never as good as I would like it to be, or my stories as expressive as the scenes that play out in my mind, as I can never quite get the 'feel' that i want. I am always pleased ...if often shocked, that people actually do enjoy my stuff and thanx again

[Quixote]

I am fiercely self-critical of my for-want-of-a-better-word 'literary' writing (three unpublished novels - good thing I have a painslut to whip or my frustration might get out of hand ...) but my attitude to the porn I write is strange.

I don't put much effort into it.  I don't take it very seriously.  I never develop my ideas very fully or write anything very long.  Usually they are just a snapshot or two of an idea I find hot.  Sometimes I feel a little ashamed, since there are so many pros around (on here especially) who do such accomplished work.  Sometimes I like the way my half-assed approach makes the work turn out.  Little porno verbal sketches have their value too, I hope.  :-)