the fate of the mirror's shadow

8/8/2019 The Fate of the Mirror's Shadow

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The Fate of the Mirror's Shadow

By

Giuseppe Ng

Based on the Original Story By

Ayesha VGiuseppe Ng



I

Do you ever wonder what your life looks like from another pair of eyes? A person that’s always there.

Watching your every move. Do you wonder what does he think of you?

I used to wonder what she thinks of me. Now I know that what we share is special and I have no regrets

of having to have done what I did.

Tick!

With a simple flick of a switch, the bulb flickered to life, casting away the darkness that engulfed

this room. For a moment, the sudden shots of light dazzled my eyes, pinching my nerves ever so slightly. As I tried to cover the blinding light, I was reminded of the weight of those cold metal

cuffs that bound my arms together. Footsteps echoed followed by the clicking sound of a steel

door. Someone was coming in. I knew that much.

I lowered my arms to see and understand what was happening, but in the light, my sight was no

better than it was in darkness. Everything was murky, white and black odd silhouettes dancing

in my sight. But then as I continued to stare, I realized that from these strange shapes, I started

to see colour, form, things. My sight was returning and I saw a dark blue silhouette sashaying

behind a long white gap that separated us.

The silhouette stopped as little more details started to come to view. Bricks started to form fromthe white walls that stood around me. Before me was a shimmering white table, in its reflection

a dangling light bulb. At the end of a table was man in a well-pressed blue uniform. Specific

details were hard to analyze though he clearly seemed to have a sizable build.

“State your name!”

A voice growled, asking for my name, no doubt coming from the officer that stood from afar.

Forceful and intimidating, his echoes rung in my ears and mind. I could feel my limbs tense up,

my heart beat rising with every second that passed by. It was only natural for me.

My eyes began instinctively to study every inch of his face. The officer had combed brown hair

over his aged and wrinkled face. His cheeks were flat, perhaps hardened by the training.

Above his black eyes were eyebrows, dark and thick. A thick black mustache covered most of

his upper lip.

Before me stood the most intimidating person I have seen in my life. In his presence, I could

only stare back, pondering over my fortune and where my fate would take me.



From his hands, the officer revealed a long blue folder that enclosed several sheets of paper

and slapped it on the table. His strong gaze met my startled eyes, as if waiting for a response.

All I could do was tremble however. And in silence, I waited for what would happen next.

The officer heaved a deep sigh after that short pause and proceeded to approach me. “I amInspector Trevor Chapman and in here, I’m the only friend you’ll ever have.”, the inspector

introduced himself with the deep rasp of his voice.

Slowly and calmly, Trevor sat on the table and looked once again at me. “You seem to be the

quiet kind of guy, eh?” He remarked still bearing the grim expression of his face. I knew very

well he was trying to ease my mind and relax. Perhaps, the fear that gripped me was written all

over my face.

I nodded knowing fully well that if I continued to clamp down like this, I’d be going nowhere in

this situation. All I could do was hope that all would turn out well. Letting him know I was able

and willing to comply was my very first hopeful step.

At the sight of a response, Trevor broke a small smile realizing that progress was being made.

“Okay, good. You have a problem with people? Communicating? What’s your story, son?”, he

asked trying to get an idea of where I came from.

They said I had issues. They said I had problems and that it was more than simply

communication. The problems I faced were far more fundamental than that.

Gimme another bottle!

The smell of rum and ale filled my senses in an instant following the terrifying voice. I tried to

stay seated on my old wooden work table focusing on my own papers. My eyes started

observing every curve of my handwriting, trying to forget that my tormentor ever existed.

Alas! It was all for naught, for the persistence of the voice behind me continued on. “Are you

freaking deaf, you lazy piece of garbage? I said, gimme another one!”

Gah!

A pinch of pain was all it took for my eyes to open, rousing from the terrible nightmare. My

heart pounded like there was no tomorrow. My breathing was short and restless. There I was,

lying on cushioned lounge chair, looking at the beige painted ceiling. Slowly, I started to realize

that all of that was simply a nightmare.

As my head raised, I started to look around, understanding where I was. There were several

large windows on the far side of the beige walls. From there, I could see the bright and

wonderful morn. Red wooden posts and pieces of furniture served as accents to the room. The



We sat in his office, enclosed within those familiar beige walls and surrounded by the fine

furnishings. Peter sat behind his desk but from that very moment, I knew something was

different. The man that was full of words had nothing to say to me.

Instead, Peter handed me a note. Puzzled by this sudden change I peered to the paper and in

that sheet was only one line. One line that made all the difference.

“I heard that it didn’t go too well with Peter.”

Inspector Chapman remarked while sifting through page after page from his file folder, no doubt

referring to my sessions with Peter Straven. This time, the officer spoke knowing that my

response would always simply be silence.

As I stared back at him, I weighed over the words he just uttered. Mr. Chapman only drew from

what the file in his hands could say. I knew better however and I definitely wouldn’t say that my

time with Peter was fruitless. It was all worth it just to finally understand what he wanted to tell

me that final day. That sheet of paper. Those words written in them. That was how I found my

calling.

“What is this, Peter?”, I spoke with the curiosity burning inside. Perhaps it was that curious

feeling that drove me to speak up. Perhaps it was because I had come to expect another one

of his pointless lectures. Regardless of whatever the real impetus was, this time, it was I that

struck the conversation.

“We don’t have to talk today. Just think about it.” Those were his only words for me that day.

Brief, concise, and cryptic.

“This is going really well between us.”, the inspector’s quipped making sure I recognized the

sarcasm from his wry smile. There he was sitting on the desk as if he owned the room pouring

over the documents, not even taking a glance back at me.

For the entire time, I had never felt compelled to speak with Mr. Chapman, but as I soon

realized, that was about to change. The inspector reached for his pocket and revealed

something that was of great importance. In that very instant, my eyes locked on it, mesmerized

by that very token.

Inspector Chapman tossed a pink hair clip into my hands. Without even looking at it, I knew

every little bit of detail as it rolled into my hands, from the slick pink plastic to the black plastic

clip underneath it. By instinct, I twirled it in my fingers the same way I had many times before.

“What is it that you do?”, the officer asked and while the pin spun on my fingers, I began to track

back. What is it that I do?

I twirled the pin in my fingers, as I stood behind the blinds of the window of my cramped



apartment. There I waited impatiently, with a pair of binoculars in my other hand. I heard the

little rapid taps my fingers made on it as nervous tension coursed into my veins. All I could do

was wait.

Knock! Knock!

Loud knocks on the door startled me, disorienting the train of thought I had. The mere thought

of having to handle visitors gave me fits. Why couldn’t everyone simply leave me alone?

I opened the door muttering to myself, cursing this very disruption. Behind the door was a

young man in khaki pants and a brown polo shirt. In his hands was a small carton box, around

five inches per side. “Order for Terry...?”, the man said without any ounce of enthusiasm.

Instantly, I remembered that this was indeed for me, that realization easing some of the

apprehension I found over the intrusion. “Yes.”, I responded curtly and lowered my binoculars

over to a nearby table. I then slipped my fingers into my pant pocket to produce a roll of bills

that I had already set aside for the order.

After the transaction was made, I took the parcel and placed it on the table when the delivery

man suddenly threw a question, grabbing my attention.

“What are you going to do with all of that?”, the delivery man with a tinge of curiosity. I did not

welcome him nosing around my business and in the shrewdest tone I could set, I simply

responded: “GET OUT!”

I slammed the door at the man, feeling the blood boil inside my veins. “Had I missed my

chance?”, my mind constantly hammered myself for the answer as I walked back to thewindows with both the pin and the binoculars at hand. Peering through the blinds, the tension

that seized me instantly was released, for she was the only person that mattered.

There she was, with her long flowing black hair, bright wonderful green eyes and that pearl

white skin. She was soft and delicate. and I gladly poured my time watching her. Slowly, I put

down my binoculars and grabbed my camera sitting by the window sill.

“What is it that I do? What is it that I do for a living?”

Snap!

I lowered my camera, taking in the soft melody of the birds up the tree. It was a lovely day no

doubt. The trees swayed gently by the cool breeze as I enjoyed the view of the park. Children

ran to and fro, with their parents closely attending to them. There was happiness in the look of

their faces. Happiness now forever embodied in a frozen frame.

Breaking away from the cheerful sight, I looked back at my camera, reviewing the pictures that I



had collected. One photo focused on a solitary tree, its large arms serving as the perfect shade

from the glares of the sun. Another centered up close on a green leaf. As I cycled through

each photo, nothing ever seemed to be good enough for my taste. Overexposed. Under lit.

Out of focus. I could go on and on over the imperfection of my work. And yet, I knew it was

also good enough for my employer.

“Anything for the payday.”, I once again reminded myself whilst walking away from the park. As

I treaded through the sidewalk, familiar Gothic inspired buildings towered ahead, just around my

neighborhood. Before me, the brick streets shot to the horizon. While admiring the scene of

nameless faces shuffling through the side walk, I could not resist raising my camera again. I

had to capture the beauty that was before me.

Appreciating this beauty was what Peter taught me. And for that, I am forever indebted to him.

www.salvatoreslife.com

I did not understand why Peter gave me this web address, but that confusion soon would be

answered at the very moment I visited that website.

Salvatore’s Life

The Struggle To Discover Myself

My name is Ferdinand Salvatore. Successful businessman, photographer and artist. In this website, I

would like to share glimpses of my journey from my own dark history to the bright days I enjoy today and

in the future.

Something about Mr. Salvatore struck me. From his online rambles I realized that people canbe so different and yet have so much alike. Ferdinand was a person who was trapped in his

own bitter past. The son to a divorced drunkard of a father and a stepmother who cared more

about what she wore than what he needed, much of the life of the young Salvatore had revolved

in the streets. Without a sense of direction, Ferdinand was on a perpetual downward spiral. His

travails seemingly had no end in sight.

And as I pondered on those thoughts, the aroma of a familiar drunkard tortured my senses once

again.

Bang!

I staggered from the blow I received to the back of my head. The strength of the impact left me

on the wooden floor with the scattered schoolwork that I had toiled through. After the loud

crash of the rickety seat to the floor, I once again heard the terrifying rambles of a man who

found solace only at the end of a bottle.

“Gimme another bottle, you no good ingrate!” That was the way father always called on me. At



first, I thought it must have been something I had done. Under his watch, three things swirled in

my heart for the longest time.

Shame. Anger. Fear.

All three intertwined with the pains he caused clouded my thoughts. Maybe I was really aningrate, living off the paltry sum of money he brought home everyday. But no matter how I tried

to wrap my head around the tragic circumstances I was in, there was no rhyme nor reason for

his foul mood. It was just the way he worked. And judging from how people treated me in

society and at home, it was simply how the world worked.

As I sunk deeper into this living hell, I began to ponder on it. Why is my life miserable? Why have I

gotten into so much trouble?

Those questions swirled in my head at the darkest point of my path, surrounded by the filth and scourge

of society and on the brink of self-destruction. It was there that I realized that all this time, my sights

were always pointed down.

Everything around me dragged me down. The parents I had. The friends I chose. The memories I kept.

All of them were weight that steadily pulled me deeper and deeper into the abyss. This living hell was my

own choosing. It was my own creation and if I was going to get out of it, I had to do something. I had to

look up for a change. I needed to know what was above to pull myself up.

While delving deeper in his website, I saw the photographs that Salvatore posted. There was a

calm beauty in the sceneries he shot. Photo after photo, I saw land and cityscape that took my

breath away. Under each photo were comments by viewers and visitors over the work he had

done. There was adoration. There was praise. His achievements were appreciated. His workwas loved dearly. It was the kind of emotion that I had not enjoyed.

Our life is like a photo album. It is up to us to decide the images we treasure and keep. They influence

us. They define us. The photos we choose is how we shape who we are now.

Through Salvatore’s words, I saw that the terrible fear that had been drilled inside me for years

defined what I had been all this time. I had focused all my attention to all the terrible things in

my life and allowed it to frame my views on everything.

From that realization, I decided to turn inwards to myself. I had to change my outlook every

time I stared at the mirror. I had to teach myself to stay positive and to work for myself. There

was only one person in this society I could trust to help me. That was me.

Snap!

I took a photograph of the bustling street in my neighborhood. From Salvatore, I found to

appreciate beauty in the things I saw and the camera in my hands served the perfect tool of



preserving those special moments. But something would soon disrupt this beautiful scene

before me.

From the steady stream of the shuffling crowd in the bustling streets broke a young lady in a

white fleece jacket and loose black pants. Her skin was pearl white. Her long shiny black hair

floated with the wind as she staggered into the middle of the street. While the crowd started toscatter in reaction to the disruption, I could hear an angry growl somewhere there. No doubt

the angry tirade was aimed directly at the poor lady.

Something about that scene unfurling before me caught my eye. This time, all I could do was

lower my camera and stare. A bottle flew from the crowd towards the poor lady, crashing on

the ground into pieces, fortunately missing her.

It dawned upon me then, just what I was feeling at that very moment. As the young lady

squirmed in fear at the threat that was looming, I knew instantly the frightful tension she was

going through. Every inch of pain she felt was familiar. I started to slowly pace towards her, my

camera still gripped in my hands, and never really understanding why or what I was doing.

Bursting from the crowd was a haggard man in a dark brown coat and pants. I could see from a

far that his hair was in disarray, and as the mysterious man marched out in anger, I immediately

spotted the dishevelled buttoned shirt under his coat. It was the very same sorry sight every

damn time I saw my own father. He slapped her in front of many people who didn’t seem to

care what was happening. As she fell on the ground, he mercilessly kicked her on the stomach.

Like a predator being interrupted from his prey, the man turned to me, noticing my intrusion. I

knew I had taken a step too many. By instinct, I began to observe every inch of detail not

knowing what else I could do. His face was broad, his eyes deep-setted, filled with malice and hate. The man’s build clearly meant trouble, and I knew I was helpless.

Father was a bully and though he shared very little physical features with this thug, I could see

his vileness in this bastard. And even though I saw familiar faces of fear that had tormented

much of my life, this time it was going to be different. I took not a single step back.

In front of many eyes, my feet were planted firmly on the ground. There was no plan nor any

idea of how I could handle this situation. Yet still I stood there as he loomed. Every terrifying

ordeal my father put me through, I never once stood up against him. I let him take a hold of me.

To me, this was the first sign of breaking that shackle of terror.

As my mind tried to figure out what to do, my eyes wandered until they fell on a pink hair clip on

the ground near that beaten young lady. I was fixated on it and although it was only for a

moment, it felt like an eternity to me.

Suddenly, an earsplitting whistle sounded off from behind, shattering my thoughts and my

focus.



The whistle echoed inside the interrogation room, rousing me from the journey I had embarked

on. My eyes broke away from my past, and gazed upon the person who held my future.

Trevor Chapman was still sitting on the table side, sifting through documents from the file. “I

knew that would get your thoughts running.”, he remarked with a sly smile, sounding so sure hehad figured me out. Immediately after those words left his mouth, he slid to me a sheet of paper

with a picture printed on it.

Temper boiled inside me hearing the inspector talk. But at the same time, I knew that there was

nothing I could do. Brooding in silence, I looked at the print recognizing what it was almost

instantly.

There she was with her radiant smile on her slender face. The black silky hair gracefully pinned

by those very pink hair clips I’ve grown attached to.

“Do you know her?”, Mr. Chapman asked and from his voice, I could feel that he was taunting

me.

“Yes.”, I replied, weighing the word that had come out of my mouth. I felt defiance and anger

ring within the four walls of the room. As my voice echoed, I stared deep into Mr. Chapman’s

eyes. He looked like a man who was so sure of everything, but I knew he had nothing.

“What does he know about me? How can he ever understand what we have?”, I said to myself

while putting my focus back on the picture before me, beckoning me for my attention. The

sound of calm waters flowed into my ears, soothing the aggressive tension in my nerves. As

the sound mesmerized me, I heard a sweet voice speak to me.

“Thank you...”

We were in a row boat in the middle of the calm lake that dark, cold night. She had a jacket

over her simple pink dress. It was the only garment that gave her warmth in this dreaded chill.

Alone, I sat there, enjoying her radiance as she continued. “Thank you for helping me...”, she

closed while my eyes studied her round pink lips. I could hear my heart beat madly while in her

presence. There can be no doubt that I was intoxicated by her bright green eyes, her slow

seductive breath, and her soothing smile. In response to her thanks, all I could do was choke

and nod.

“What is it you do?”, she asked notably curious about me. I didn’t know how it all panned out

nor could I figure why she was interested in me but I felt fortunate that she did. With my mind

racing to piece together a coherent response, I stammered and choked out a sorry reply.

“I... uh... photographer...” My mind screamed at myself for that embarrassing blunder. Almost



instantly, I began to re-evaluate the transformation that was happening in me. Perhaps, this

was what Peter wanted to say about shutting people out. Getting myself to finally open up

before this girl was an incredible challenge, unlike anything I had ever experienced in my life.

Suddenly, all those running thoughts that clouded my mind vanished into nothingness. I felt a

cold touch on my hand. It was her fingers running up my hand.

“Relax... it’s okay...”, she whispered recognizing how uncomfortable I was in this position. “I

don’t want to know what your work is. I want to know what you do for yourself...”

“Yes... work was only a part of my life. On its own, it cannot define me as a person. I knew that

there was something else. Something that had become my everyday life.”



II

That was how my birthday started. What a surprise it was!

Under dim glow of the laptop screen, I stared back at the web page before me, reaping the

result of my late night toils. My eyes lingered from that line to the picture below it. It was a

beautiful sunny day in my neighborhood. Soft puffs from the freshly brewed coffee billowed

from the windows of the cafe below my apartment building. Under the bright sun was the focal

point of the entire image. There, Elizabeth stood on the concrete pavement, near the flight of

stairs to her apartment. Her long black hair was a stark contrast to her white flowing dress. The

lovely smile she wore accentuated the pureness and delicateness of her innocence. As several

men toiled transporting several large crates behind her, she casually tended to the delivery manin a brown coat.

Who would have known the surprise that was waiting for me? I’ve never been showered with so many

gifts in my life and yet my Lenny had done just that. I know all of you have been curious about him. But

later, I’ll show you the note I received from him. Hopefully, it gives you all a glimpse of what a

wonderful man he is.

This is truly a special moment, one that I will treasure forever. For now, enjoy this tease...

Following Elizabeth’s personal words were dim photos of several pictures on the wall, draped in

curtains. After those set of pictures was another dim one, but it was special, a close up of thatpink clip resting on the table.

It never occurred to me how my little project grew and how much feedback I had gotten. What

started out as a personal story had begun to stretch its reaches, far beyond what I had ever

imagined. I sat back, looking at the windows, seeing the lone lit window in the building across.

I remembered a different kind of personal life in my website and like that lone light in the dark

shadows of the night, I was reminded of the very emotion that drove me.

I was trying to reach out. I was trying to find a way to get what Ferdinand had attained. Yet

there was I, alone. Everyday of my life, loneliness slowly gnawed at my spirit. It was the life I

chose and soon I began to realize how much that had to change. I tried to do my best to bring

about it.

Sitting in front of my machine, I stared at my own website. A little speck in the virtual world. I

was never comfortable in sharing myself to people. There was always this invisible chain that

held my tongue. Fear, perhaps even shame. The internet, however, changed the entire



dynamics. It felt liberating, hiding behind anonymity. With it as a tool, I finally found an outlet,

an escape from the loneliness that had tormented me for far too long. I soon realized however

that this shackle was not an easy one to break free from.

There was no interest in my site. No response on my little tale. I was insignificant in the

vastness of the web. Why should anyone bother to hear what I say? Why should anyone care?

Someone did care and it started with a very fateful photo. The screen flashed, showing an

image of an angry man. Broad chinned with deep-set eyes, that pointed nose with a dishevelled

brown coat and shirt in the middle of the streets that shot to the horizon. There were plenty of

people around us, yet no one dared to do anything.

I remembered her forlorn look as she remained on the bricked floor. I saw the pink clip that

came down from her hair. Something had to be done about that thug that beat on her as my

father did to me. All I could do in that moment was click on the camera.

Snap!

The flash of light did nothing to slow his advancement down. I could feel the anger in his eyes

and I recognized it was worse than the drunken stupor in father’s. This man knew what he was

doing and he would not hesitate to attack me.

Suddenly, I heard the whistles blare behind me. Its screech was deafening to the ear, but that

sound seemed to have stopped the thug dead in his tracks. I looked behind me and saw law

enforcement officers heading my way. Turning back, I saw the man withdraw from his pursuit.

Immediately I rushed to her, the sense of urgency taking a hold of me. My heart beat like it never did before when I crouched low to check on her. I saw her long black hair that flowed to

the streets. I heard her whimpers, suffering from the pain that had been dealt to her. And then,

she lifted her face to me. Our eyes met and I could feel the destiny between us.

I did not give it a lot of thought when I put the photo up. To me, it was another account in a site

that nobody followed.

Corporate Executive Caught In Street Scuffle

I know what I wanted when I started my website, but that picture was the start of how my life

had changed. Before I knew it, that photo attracted media and others. I feared the attention the

page generated. It was the only page people seemed interested in. So, I gave the picture

away and it spread on the local papers like wild fire.

Jefferson Lambert, already embroiled in stock exchange scandal was seen in the streets early today

tangling with what appears to be his mistress. Mr. Lambert’s company has been under investigation these

months for insider trading as well as misrepresenting financial statements when an anonymous source



blew the whistle on the corporation’s questionable practices.

The photo above was taken by an eye witness this morning. Details of the incident are rather slim as of

the moment.

I did not know whether she was indeed his mistress. It mattered very little to me. But in theintense chatter online, I realized that I could be someone through her. She was how I could

break the loneliness that tortured me for so long. Alas, there would be peace in my heart.

The leaves rustled softly from the gentle winds of the cool night. We were together, she and I,

sharing the same boat in the lake. Under the silver moonlight, I could clearly see the interest in

her eyes as she nodded. “That’s interesting. You run a website?”, she asked with a smile.

“Yeah.”, I responded very briefly. It never felt natural for me to carry what seemed to be a

personal conversation, yet I willingly tried my best to keep the flow going. My terse responses

were more than I’ve ever shared with any other person in the world. In our moment together, I

started to realize that something was changing in me. For the longer we were together, the

easier it became to interact with her. The nervous tension that gripped every fiber of me slowly

started to ebb away. Truly, her beauty and kindness were not only disarming, they were

intoxicating.

“Could I help out with it? Maybe write...”, she asked, her eyes breaking contact from mine. I

saw a shyness in her. The same kind that had kept me in my own little world.

“Sure.”, I responded. I couldn’t say no. Not to her. She smiled once she heard of my approval.

I don’t know why she would be interested, but her happiness was reason enough. If she was

going to contribute, I needed to give her access so I made that part clear. “I’ll give you accesswhen we get back to shore.”

“Thank you.”, she softly replied while still looking away to the shimmering moon on the lake’s

reflection. “I’m tired of the corporate clerk lifestyle... I’m tired of dealing with cops... Writing

seems like a good change...”, her voice trailed away as if in deep thought.

As I studied her face, I began to wonder if there was something wrong. There was clear

frustration and exhaustion in her voice. I started to hear the thump of my own heart. Concern

crept into me as my mind raced for ways to comfort her. With my trembling hands, cold from

the anxiety, I stroked her cheeks and gently pulled her face back.

“I feel like I’ve known you forever... and yet this is truly the first time we’ve seen each other.”

The words that came out of me flowed like water. Where the words came from, I couldn’t say

for sure. In that moment, I saw her smile back. She appreciated it, that much I could tell.

Her white hands reached into the pocket of her jacket, and then she once again spoke with a



smile.

“I think this belongs to you...”

From her soft delicate palm was that pink clip. I paused, studying every detail of it, from its

simplistic pink plastic, to the black clip. It was hers, not mine, but the words she spoke rungdeep in me. I understood what she meant.

I recalled the first time I saw that clip on the street. As I helped her up, I could not help but slip

it in my pocket. I needed something to remember her by. It just was one of those necessities

for me.

From that point on, I knew things were never going to be the same again. Every minute and

second of my thoughts were fuelled by her. It became important that I could see her, even for

just a moment.

In the midst of the nameless crowd that shuffled in the open streets, I began to follow her from a

far, taking chances and stealing candid shots of her. It was during this time that I realized that

her flat was right opposite mine. In an instant, I had begun figuring how that unquenchable

thirst for her could be satiated. For days, from the windows of my own room, I twiddled that hair

clip while peering through my set of binoculars. For a time, that was enough.

I had countless of photos of her as she went about her days in and out of her apartment. There

were plenty of happy moments and yet there were also deeply troubled ones. One time, she

would cry after seeing something in her laptop. Though I could never figure out what she saw

from her computer, the kind of stress she displayed on the phone was enough evidence for me

to put two and two together.

“I need more time to give you what you are after...”

“I know the change has been sudden, but please... please don’t forget your promise... ”

Tucked carefully in the corner of the streets, I eavesdropped on one of her phone conversations

while she was on her mobile. There was pressure in her voice. A sense of urgency if not

desperation. Worse still, I felt her pain and I knew it was Lambert. He was hurting her and

pushing her to her limits.

We shared the same scars. There was no doubt in me that it would bring us together. That

feeling grew in time, until it reached a point where simply staring at her beauty was little comfort

for me. I had to get closer.

Snap!

In the dead of the night and several feet above on the fire escape, I lowered my camera after



taking a shot. I peered through the windows and into that room that I’ve seen so many times.

Slowly I reached for the window and gently slid it up, knowing that she had never bothered to

lock them.

A soft moon glow seeped through the windows of her apartment, accentuating the solitary

atmosphere of her living room. The apartment space was rectangular, with the kitchen counter setup on the far end from where I was. Its bleach white painted wooden floor that I was more

than familiar with had a dim blue hue to it under the moonlight. To my left were intricately

crafted wooden seats and tables. On my right were several pictures hanging on the wall, each

of them draped with a white cloth. They had arrived a few days ago in large crates though she

never once took a peek on them.

I walked towards the table to my left and placed the pink clip on its shiny smooth surface. With

great interest, I started to tweak the shutter speed of my camera and delicately focus its lens on

the hair clip on the table. Holding my breath, I made sure my hands were as steady as they

could be and made two consecutive clicks.

Pleased with the results, I slowly turned to the pictures that hung on the wall, trying to get the

most interesting angles to shoot them. There was no need to reveal those paintings.

Wondering what was behind the drapes were always more interesting to me.

I’m so intrigued by those pictures, Liz! I hope to hear more from you!

It did not take long for people to take notice of Elizabeth. They loved the little things she shared

as well as the pictures that were online. It brought intimacy, I think, and that connection with her

audience helped shape this project. Deep inside my mind, I wondered just how good I was and

how far I could take this. The kind of following that Elizabeth had was proof that my father wasdead wrong about me.

Every simple word of praise on the site were simply that, words on my screen, but they meant

more to me than the anger fueled diatribe my father had poured on me for years. Seeing and

feeling that kind of appreciation gave me pride. I was finally being appreciated just as much as

Ferdinand was. Maybe even more. Truly the virtual space reached far beyond the real one. In

here, I was no longer bound by physical limits.

Click!

The reality of what I had just done, dawned upon me when I heard the click of the front door of

her apartment. Someone was coming and if I stayed around to find out, I would be in serious

trouble. Behind the door, I heard her voice as if speaking to someone. My heart pounded

madly realizing that this was my chance to escape.

The door creaked open soon enough and the lights of her flat flickered to life. By that point, I

was sitting by the black cold grills of the fire escape that oversaw the alley below. I was



panting, afraid of what I had just done. Surely she heard my footsteps. She knew someone

broke in.

The clocks of her shoes rung in my ears, a deep foreboding of the trouble headed my way. Did

she find out someone was here while she walked about in her flat? The nervous tension was

mounting swiftly, hammering my spirit and conscience. Even worse, not knowing what washappening made it difficult for me to assess exactly what I should be doing. With the pressure

mounting, I knew I had to take a quick peek. Slowly, I rose and the first thing my eyes fell on

made everything worse.

“The clip!”, I cursed myself for leaving it on the table for a photo. There was no way I could get

out of this situation cleanly, not while that blasted hair clip was there. But as I surveyed the

room, the nerve wracking pressure that twisted my gut turned into down right confusion.

She was there in a pink dress, her long black hair flowing with the gentle breeze. With heavy

clocks of her heeled shoes, she approached that very table, no doubt spotting the pin I had

foolishly left behind. What happened afterwards was something I could not understand.

I saw her smile. In my own mind, I could not figure why but she seemed delighted at seeing it.

She picked up the pink clip and studied it for a moment before making a quick glance my way,

at the window I forgot to close.

I scampered away, the throbbing beats of my own fear carrying me swiftly. It was plain as day

that she knew about my involvement. Why did she smile? What would she do now? The

unanswered questions mounted in my mind with no end in sight. In a flash, the fog that clouded

my mind faded away.

She loved it.

The sounds of calm waters filled my ears. As I stared into the pink hair clip on the palm of my

hand, I knew I was right. She welcomed the attention. Perhaps she craved it and I was more

than happy to give her the space. We were finally together.

“But, this is yours...”, I replied, looking back at her in that calm evening. “I don’t think I should be

keeping it...”

“Because you have your own, right?”, she cut in, her words clearly surprising me. “It’s alright.

Keep it for me. I hope it gives you some strength in your trying moments.”, she replied with

earnest care.

This living hell was my own choosing and if I was going to get out of it, I had look up for a change. I

needed to know what was above to pull myself up.

I did and Salvatore was right.



“So, you two are an item, eh?”, Officer Chapman remarked rubbing his chin while remaining

bolted on the table. To me it was more than that and I had tried to explain it to him. We weren’t

just a couple. It was much more than that. Maybe he was not interested in hearing of the

partnership we struck together.

“This is starting to make more sense now that you’re opening up, son.”, the officer quipped with

a smile.

I could not tell what was funny with what he just said. Feeling that I was the one in the dark

infuriated me. I had shared what Elizabeth was to me. I had opened up what I did for a living to

him. Yet somehow, I was in the dark in all of this. I had a right to know and this time I let it be

known.

“It would make much more sense to me if you finally told me what this is about.” I gestured with

my arms showing the cuffs that bound them. “You know about Elizabeth! You know about my

photography! Why am I here? I demand an answer!”

The echoes of my angry voice did little to perturb my inquisitor. Officer Chapman remained

seated on the table, browsing through the documents in his possession. “Don’t worry, son.

We’re getting there.”, he wryly replied.

“Do you know Jefferson Lambert?”, the officer quizzed while passing on a photo. As I peered

over it, I saw the terrible look in the man’s eyes that stared into nothingness. His features were

fresh in my mind, from his broad face, to his cleanly shaven chin, the long pointed nose and his

deep-setted eyes. His pale skin was drenched but that was not much of a surprise to me.

“No. Not personally.”, I replied truthfully. We never had any personal contact apart from the

day he chose to beat her up. As my mind started to probe on that man however, I knew there

were things that no one else knew about him. It was in the way he treated her. It was in the

way he tormented her.

“Who was that guy?”, I asked her as we drifted in the calm lake, with the leaves rustling with the

nippy whispers of the wind.

“Jefferson Lambert, he is my boss... ”, her voice trailed as she looked to the calm scenery.

“He... he owned me for a long time...” There was a terrible ache in her voice as she spoke.

“He’s been under a lot of stress, and... he took it out mostly on me...”

Understanding how difficult it had been for her. I pressed the issue no longer. There I was by

her side, content in just being with her, drifting on calm waters.

“Interesting that you don’t know him...”



Trevor’s voice would pull me out of my train of thought, finally painting the scene for me.

“Maybe you can explain this to me then.”, the officer spoke with confidence as if he had

everything figured out. From the file folder, he revealed a print out and from the layout of the

print, I knew immediately where it came from. I read the print, my eyes weighing on the words

in the document.



I used to wonder what she thinks of me. Now I know that what we share is special and I have no regrets

of having to have done what I did.

I never regretted what I did to Jeff Lambert. He had to pay for all the atrocities that scum had done to

Liz. She needed my help and I was ready to liberate her.

Below the words were photos and they were also familiar to me. The images that had been

engrained in my memories flashed once more. It was Lambert sprawled on the floor, right in

Liz’s apartment. I saw the blood that spurted out of his body and I stood there mesmerized by

the stunning violence on display.

The terrible gravity of the charge fell on my shoulders. It brought a renewed sense of urgency in

me. I knew something was amiss and I had to say my piece. He had to see it my way. He

must!



III

The door creaked open giving way to my little abode. I could see the empty package that was

delivered to me days ago opened and laying there on my small wooden table. It was a constant

reminder of how I’ve neglected everything else since my life had been turned upside down. Just

beside the table was a small bed that might as well had been another table judging from all the

things and my computer that were left there.

It was the end of another work day for me and with fatigue setting in, I unslung the camera from

my shoulders and placed it on the table beside the empty box. I heaved a deep sigh and

dropped on my bed, pondering over who I had happened to see on my way up this cold night.

I had begun noticing that same delivery man days ago loitering on the hall of my apartment.

Though we never traded any words, I could feel it was him in that brown shirt and that pair of

khaki pants. Perhaps there had been more deliveries done these past few days, the clip board

of order sheets with him was certainly proof enough.

As my thoughts lingered on what business the man could possibly have, I was reminded very

swiftly that I should be looking over to my own business. I turned over to my laptop and my e-

mail inbox came to view in an instant.

Ad revenue account update November 13, 2010 5:00 PM

Money transferred to Bank of Levington

account

November 13, 2010 10:00 AM

RE: Payment for contract work November 13 2010 9:00 AM

While going through the list of unread e-mails, I found no interest in my work email once I saw

the funds had been transferred. That contract work had always been a real test of my temper

since trying to get a single penny out of my boss was an exercise of grovelling and begging. It

was fortunate that the ad revenues of my own project had eased some of that tight financial

pressure. All I had to do was make sure that the numbers were right. Before I could click on

the emails however, a new one came in and the words shook away the fatigue that hung on my

eyes.

Website Comment: Look out the windows! November 13, 2010 8:00 PM

It was an e-mail address that I had not seen before. The sender was anonymous but that all

changed as soon as the contents of the e-mail were revealed.

Remember me? Do you remember what you left behind? This is urgent. Please help...



The images flashed back in my mind. I remembered the pink hair clip, she held with her fingers

that night. The terrible chill that gripped me was all too familiar. More importantly, I recalled her

smile.

With that thought held in my mind, I forcefully peeled myself up from bed and quickly rushed tomy drawer nearby. With one quick pull, the cheap wooden drawer revealed several sets of pink

hair clips of the same make. Even though I may have lost it, I still had enough for myself to

remember her by.

With the small clip in hand, my thoughts drifted back to the mysterious letter. With no real

context, there was only one thing apparent from the mail. The words alone implied how

pressing the situation was. She needed me and now, I was poised to respond to it.

As I stared into the horizon of the night, I saw tiny bright lights from afar punching through the

dark facade of the cityscape. The roads were barren though the night was still young. My eyes

quickly scanned the view outside, but nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.

As had been my routine, I picked up the binoculars sitting on the window sill, meaning to take a

look at the set of windows opposite mine. Fear was truly a ticking time bomb. The longer it took

me to figure out what this was about, the worse it was for my spirit.

With that constant tension hammering myself, I finally peered through the lens, twirling the clip

with my fingers. The lights of her living room was on though she was not in view. I waited and

waited, but nothing seemed to be happening out of the ordinary.

“Something must be wrong.” , I said to myself repeatedly, my fear escalating with every secondthat went by without her in view. Finally, the very reason for the email surfaced, and with great

intent and worry, I peered on. I saw her pop into view, frantically running past the windows.

Something was definitely amiss and I knew there was only one name to that.

“His pulse...?”

He was dead...

Jefferson Lambert’s body laid in a pool of blood, his eyes rolled all the way back, his mouth half

opened, as if intending to whisper a secret buried deep within him. It was too late though. My

fingers sought for some pulse on his neck and there was none. He was gone, but there was not

a hint of sadness in me. Whatever secret he may have had went to the grave with him and I

could not care less.

Yet my heart was running at a rapid pace. Fear, panic and concern ran into my bloodstream

just seeing the sight before me. It was a dangerous combination and one that carried serious

implications if not managed. Quickly, I realized however that there was a sound, a soft sound



that ached my heart. It was the sound of soft weepings.

I surveyed the surroundings finding the source of my agony and then I saw her, sobbing and

shaking in fear over the threat that had been vanquished. She was curled up in the corner of

the kitchen wearing that familiar bleach white dress. Her long black hair practically shrouded

her face though I could see she was using the soft white gloves to wipe her tears.

I felt her anguish. It was the same torment that my own father had willingly sown on me. I then

heard her quaking fear-stricken voice speak. I could barely make out what she was saying, but

the only word that I heard was the one that mattered.

...gun...

On the wooden floor near me was a pistol with a silencer attached to it. She was probably

concerned over the dangerous weapon that lay on the floor. Without a second thought, I

carefully picked up the pistol and placed it on the lifeless body. We had to get rid of all of this.

We needed to. But how, I could not say.

“...uh... it’s okay...”, I foolhardily tried to ease her, but my state was no better than hers. My

mind was rattled and my heart swirling in panic. There was a terrifying urgency in my thoughts

that told me go and wrap this ordeal. But I was confused. I did not know what to do.

I left the body and approached her, hoping that my presence would at least ease her. As I did,

however, I saw from the kitchen cabinets several large garbage bags. We needed to get rid of

all this mess and I thought I found out a way how.

While busily pulling out bag after bag, I heard the sound of her weeps stop. The next thing I knew, she was standing beside me, pulling out a set of rope to use. “I know the place we can

go...”, she whispered. At that point, I started to calm down. Everything was going to be fine.

She was going to be fine.

“The body of Jefferson Lambert was found on a Monday morn...”

Trevor Chapman remained seated on the table before me, reciting the facts of the murder to

me. “The cause of death from the autopsy was from severe blood loss by several severed

arteries. There were two gunshot wounds to the chest.”, he continued turning to me as the

words left his mouth.

I could not help but turn away from his piercing stare. In my mind, I thought everything would

turn out right, but the truths that were surfacing was damning to hear. As I closed my eyes, I

could still see the blood spurt out of the man’s body. “Two gunshot wounds...” , my mind kept

telling myself.

“The weapon is a silenced nine millimeter pistol, found alongside the body of the victim.” The



revelation shot a chill down my spine. Mr. Chapman in a span of a few minutes, peeled away

layer after layer of the crime with incredible detail. The nightmare that I thought had been

turned away had come back to haunt me.

Bang!

Two pairs of large hands pinned me on the floor of my apartment. All that I knew was that one

moment ago, I was by the window and then the next thing, my face was flat on the ground. I

was confused by this sudden sign of aggression. The cold chill of metal embraced my wrists,

making me realized I was now bound by the officers that had seized me. All it took was a swift

crank from the cuffs for me to feel the tight vise grip sting my wrists.

“You are under arrest...”, one officer barked at me while I remained pinioned. They went about

their routine of reciting my rights and what this commotion was all about, but very quickly their

incessant commands had turned into ambient noise. My mind was adrift. Journeying into the

past, wondering if I was wrong all along.

“You lazy piece of garbage! You really are a no good ingrate!”

Was father right? Was I indeed doomed for failure? Peter had given me a direction in life. He

had given me Ferdinand Salvatore’s remarkable journey of self-discovery. I believed in his

miracle, and through his tales, I knew I was cured of whatever the ‘problem’ was. For some

time, the turn around I had felt true and real, but maybe I was simply not meant to be. Perhaps

father recognized that deep in my core, I was a loser, from the flesh and bones of one.

“Thank you...”

An image flashed in my mind. It was her with that silky long black hair and her delicate pearl

white skin. Studying her face was always mesmerizing to me, but something broke my focus. It

was a sparkle in her eyes. Soon I realized however, that it wasn’t that at all. They were tears.

I knew her torment. I felt her pain. From a far, I saw the torture she had endured for so long,

from seeing her with her laptop, down to phone conversations. I had to help her... I had to free

her...

My reminiscence ended with a forceful tug. They tore me out of my apartment like an outcast.

With my captors behind me, I dragged my feet on the halls that day with prying eyes and

dreadful whispers abound in the entire floor. In that slow agonizing march, I saw the delivery

man a few doors ahead talking with one of the tenants. He shot back at me and then smiled.

Shame. Anger. Fear. The wounds of my childhood were once again reopened.

“Something you want to share, son?”, the inspector cracked with a smirk on his face, and it was

evident that he saw an inkling of truth from the facts of the crime as he studied in my face. In



the midst of my inner turmoil from the staggering revelation, my mind began to come to terms

that there was only one way out. That was to open up and let him know what I knew. They

would see I was free of guilt. They would know she was a victim. They would realize that the

only suspect had died that day...

Bang!

I bursted out into the bricked streets outside my apartment building with terrifying images

burned in my memory. He was chasing her inside her apartment and I had to get there fast.

Leaving my normal gear and that clip inside my apartment, I hurriedly ran out and crossed the

streets with reckless abandon. In such a careless manner, we crossed paths yet again, this

time on the sidewalk of her apartment building. The delivery man with that brown shirt

staggered from the collision and then angrily hurled a few curses my way. I could not care less

what he thought however. All I knew was that every second that ticked by was a second too

late.

When I got there, the door was half opened. I was not sure if I was too late but I did not

hesitate to throw myself into the room. The scene that unfolded before me stunned me. His

deep-setted eyes rolled back. His mouth half opened. His blood all around.

I heard a whisper from afar from a familiar voice. One that I would never forget. “The pulse...”

I could hear her voice faintly reach my ears. As I pondered from the circumstances, I was dead

certain that she could never have touched that gun if there was no good reason to. Everyone

could see that his presence was reason enough.

“I know the place we can go...”

Splash!

Standing on the boat that cold night, I saw his body sink in the chilly water. As the body of the

late-Jefferson Lambert sunk to the bottom of the lake, so did all the concern that gripped me.

My eyes studied the ripples on the surface created by chaos. Slowly but surely, the water

calmed down. Peace was once again restored.

She was there, by my side, though I willingly bore the sole responsibility of disposing him. Our

worries went with him to the bottom of the abyss. Removed. Forgotten, or so I thought.

“Thank you... for helping me...”

“Are you saying you did not kill, Mr. Lambert?”, the inspector clarified my story while busily

scribing notes from my own account. “Yes.”, I responded emphatically, hoping he would

understand that he may have laid down a lot of the facts, but not everything had been revealed.

I was there when it happened. I was the one to cast the light on the puzzles missing pieces.



“You take me for a fool, do you?”, Mr. Chapman responded with a chuckle. His response to my

story threw my mind into turmoil and confusion. What more could he want from me? I had

already given everything I could.

Still seated on the table, Inspector Chapman began to reveal his hand, piece by piece. “First of all, we have photos that have been taken during the time of the murder which you don’t include

with your story.”

Obviously, Mr. Chapman was pointing out the photos that were posted on my site. I turned my

focus back to the photos on that print out. “I swear I didn’t do these! Why would I?”

“Because you are a sick and disturbed individual.”, the officer snapped back. “Dr. Peter

Straven’s evaluations gave us quite a head start when trying to figure out what a nutcase you

are.”, he continued producing more documents, this time from Peter’s office.

Subject maybe suffering from major depressive disorder. It is very evident that the subject exhibits

severe low self-esteem and is socially recluse. Trust seems to be a key issue, and this has been a major

roadblock in our sessions. I tried to stir the subject’s imagination, to change the subject’s line of thinking

into something positive, but the result of that experiment had been inconclusive.

“With that twisted mind of yours, only one thing could make it worse... your obsession.”,

Chapman pointed his fingers squarely at me as he steadily mounted even more pressure. With

his voice steadily rising, the inspector mounted more charges on me. “You’re jealous. Green

with envy over the couple. That’s a very combustible mix and you fit the bill to a tee.

“You’re dangerous. Stalking people. Causing people a lot of unrest.”

I did not understand what Trevor was trying to say to me. My mind rejected every accusation he

had levelled against me. Hearing his hateful words though brought back painful emotions.

Shame. Anger. Fear. All three, gnawing at my own spirit, leaving my heart a cold and chilly

void. Was it guilt I felt? Guilt for what?

“We had your current state run by several experts to see if Peter had something. Believe me,

your website alone provides us with much information about you.” Mr. Chapman had produced

even more medical documents to prove his case. Names of doctors were plenty though none of

them ever rung a bell. There were so many terms thrown around on the papers, from

Melancholia to Erotomanic Psychosis. All of them sounded foreign, and yet they all were

familiar. Was it proof of my ‘problem’?

Trevor Chapman tossed in a couple of printed images my way and it only took a second for me

to recognize they were mine. Each of them were photos of Liz, some of them hosted on my

site, some of them from my computer. I lingered on those photos, admiring her delicateness

and beauty captured in stills. There was serenity and peace in her eyes, but the words Mr.



Chapman spoke rung a different kind of tune.

“You know how much grief you caused her?”, the inspector pressed me. “Do you know how

much of your snooping around damaged her relationship with Jeff?”

Never could I fathom harming Elizabeth. I didn’t understand it. I didn’t believe it. As thecharges started to stack up on me, I could feel the noose tighten on me. It was as if the world

had turned on me. In that moment of awakening, images flashed before me. Images of people

from my very own memories.

I saw a dark silhouette but that was enough for me to recognize my own father. From his

shadow alone, I could tell he was back to his drunken self. He was the first person to turn on

me. He was the face of my fear and my shame. People took him away soon enough, and then

they treated me as if I was damaged goods.

Walking through recent memories, my eyes fell on the delivery man who seemed to be

everywhere. Maybe he was involved in my capture. Even though I had nothing to prove that,

my gut feeling told me he must have turned on me.

Everyone was conspiring against me, even this officer before me. He was spewing lies upon

lies and I knew it. The thought of me harming Liz was ludicrous and even though I was telling

the truth, his ears were shut and his eyes wouldn’t dare to see it.

“Lies! You’re throwing all sorts of lies! Liz loves me!”, I protested vehemently at the appalling

accusations that Mr. Chapman levelled against me. As the echoes of my anger slowly faded in

the room, the hard tense emotion was immediately followed by a loud chuckle from the

inspector.

“You still call her that? Elizabeth in your sick delusion?”, Trevor Chapman chided me, never

really taken by my outburst. “Little by little, you’ve fed your own demented reality from the box

of pink clips you bought down to your own fictional web stories. Not only have you caused

significant unrest by invading her private space, but you’ve also crossed the line and took

matters into your own hands trying to make your fantasy a reality!”

Fantasy? Fiction?

As I weighed every word that Mr. Chapman had uttered, the meaning he conveyed threatened

to tear my mind apart. I recalled Liz in her most delicate moment in the middle of those familiar

bricked streets. I felt the understanding we shared when our eyes met. I knew we were meant

together... or were we?

On the table before me were many of her photos, her facial expression exuding with natural

beauty. As I lingered on each candid moment, I realized that in between those stills were pain

and sorrow. Many times I had seen her cry in that apartment. There were numerous instances



where a simple task of using her laptop alone would make her cry. Was it because of what I

had been doing? I asked myself, even though the possibility scared me.

“Your ‘girlfriend’ called me to do a job. My job is to make sure the person that’s causing all

these problems for her pays for it. My responsibility as an officer is to keep sick men like you

were you belong.”

As Trevor’s words echoed in my ears, my perception of Liz’s photos began to change. One

particular photo caught my attention. It was Liz’s birthday surprise. There she was with her

beaming smile, talking with a delivery man, but unlike before the two now looked as if they were

talking about me, scheming against me. With quaking hands and confusing emotions swirling

inside me, I began to realize that maybe there was some truth in Chapman’s horrifying

revelations.

Everyone could see her face on my site. Each of them could see her life through that prism,

and perhaps that was the cause of her grief I had so often seen from a far. Suddenly, every

tear she shed while staring through the computer display now had a different story behind it.

“Your mental state makes your accounts totally unreliable...”, Mr. Chapman spoke with his eyes

fixed on mine. “Your obsession with Geena had thrown her life upside down...”

Geena? Liz?

As I stared into his very eyes, I could sense the confidence in him as he uttered her name to

me. The memories locked in me began to open with revelations to this day I had kept from my

mind. For many nights, I hammered my head wondering just how was I supposed to make this

website be something. Right in the midst of my own dilemma, I saw my photos of her. Myphotos of Elizabeth reminded me of the buzz I had created.

I knew I could be someone through her.

The startling thought I had locked away came back to haunt my consciousness. I created

Elizabeth. I had fueled my obsession and this imaginary character was the focal point. I

constructed this fantasy and put a face on it. This lady was that face. Elizabeth was the result

of the long nights on my keyboard.

I had created gossip on this lady. It was unwanted attention, and the limitless bounds of the

virtual world had aggravated the effects of it. Not only that, by posting my own stories of myself,

I had opened up my own self to the entire world. My own privacy was exposed in a world of

boundless potential.

“Let me lay it all down for you.”, Mr Chapman resumed his exposition. “You had mistaken

Geena for your fantastical character and created all this gossip on her life. It all started with the

photo of Lambert you spread to every publication you could.”



The buzz my website had generated was all because of that photo. The very photo I sent to

every publication. It was the start of my happiness. This was the start of my obsession, the

birth of Elizabeth.

“When you wanted to take it to the next level, you decided you wanted to steal her from Jeff Lambert. You took matters into your own hands and you knew the lake from your work in

photography.”

Did I? I remembered holding the gun in my hand, that silenced pistol that took Jeff away.

Maybe I did it. I had to get rid of Jeff Lambert. I needed to free her. What was real and what

was fantasy? The lines separating the two were growing increasingly blurred to me.

The startling realization of my terrible crimes drove a dagger into my heart. I started to weep

while the terrible chill gripped every fibre of my being. Even up to now, I never truly achieved

what I had set out to do. I was never loved. There was not an ounce of acceptance for me.

In my mind, I could now see that the world, this society, needed limits. There had to be bounds

for control and without that, the ripples of every action was staggering. To live with such

parameters, in a world of real restrictions was difficult. It was a kind of place I did not want to

live in. I could not, nor did I want to. Perhaps father was right all along. I was a scourge in this

society. An outcast who simply did not belong...

Mr. Chapman was my way out, my escape from the harsh realities of the world. With my eyes

still fixed on his, I spoke with a quivering voice.

“Yes, I did it. I killed Mr. Lambert...”

After those very words, Trevor Chapman turned swiftly and knocked on the metal doors of the

interrogation room. I could hear him speak to someone from the outside, though I could not

ascertain who that was.

“Tell her, it’s done. If she has it all ready, we can proceed to take them down. Here’s to hoping

she doesn’t disappear on us yet...”

Mr. Chapman’s words were cryptic, but they all soon swiftly faded to ambient noise. I no longer

cared for what he had to say nor about anything else. Instead, the words I uttered swirled inside

me, reminding me of the agony that awaited me. Even though I found myself dreading the

unknown, I wholeheartedly believed this was the final adversity I had to break.

Resigned to my fate, I could feel a strange sense of peace seep into me. The turmoil, the

trauma, the pain I had bore on my shoulders would finally be released. I felt the end was

coming and I embraced it.





I wonder what she thinks of me. No matter how much I ponder on it however, I will never know the

answer now.

the fate of the mirror's shadow

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