Halloween is right around the corner and a good friend of mine comes through with this very gripping, eerie short piece fit for the time of year. Check it out below and give your props to him either in the comments or to his Twitter! Also be sure to check out his website where you'll find more of his amazing writing. Keep up the good work, Faraaz! I enjoy reading everything you write. -ChiTownGuevara
"You saw me do it, didn't you?"
The figure was silent, even as he punched it with a bare fist.
"You lied to me, told me it would be alright!"
He grabbed the figure by its frame and held it high, lifting it off the ground. The figure was that of a man, staring at him, just as he stared at it.
"You let it burn...I won't forgive you."
The figure stared as it did all its life, silent and as still as the one watching it. He let it go, and a loud shattering sound emanated off the walls of the room as the mirror fell to the ground.
The man woke up shivering and sweating, two signs that he had a fever.
He went into the bathroom and locked the door. He stared in the mirror and splashed his face with water. As he walked away, so did his reflection. He was relieved.
He sat down after putting on his newly-bought, expensive clothes, peering out the large window above the city and the lake. He stood up and fogged the window with his breath and waited. He waited for ten minutes and then twenty minutes and then an hour, and he got back up and left, locking his door behind him, and then unlocking it and reopening it, peering inside his room once more. "You've been wanting to talk to me for a year now...why don't you?" His voice was demanding, but nothing was good enough to warrant an answer. He wouldn't talk to him again.
He walked down the stairs and took the elevator; it was a long way down. The expensive suite he called his home was once a room for celebrities and senators. He was neither. He deserved it all, though, the power. Over both property and people. He waved to the front attendant, the kind of hesitant wave that edged across hating him for his existence and thanking him for it. He stepped and left, climbing into a car that, to passerby, could be just as expensive as his home. He checked the rear-view mirror, and started driving out of the hotel. He was on the main street adjacent to the hotel and he stopped suddenly, the brakes of his luxury sedan barely making any sound. The tub of kerosene in the back seat toppled over from the force but didn't spill. The cap was on reassuringly tight, screwed on desperately, as if it would never be used again. He checked the mirror again and saw that it was fogged and in the misty film there was a message.
He parked his car on the street, letting a valet handle it and rushed back into the hotel, back into his room and found that all the windows were fogged. The television was on. It was glued to a single frame from the news channel, the one channel he barely watched. The report was clearly about a fire.The reporter's mouth was moving, but the words coming out were different, in a whispering chant. He listened, and surely enough, it was the same repeating message as before, in the car, and before, years ago. Ashes-ashes-ashes.
He went back into the bathroom and turned the lights off. He tore the mirror off the wall.
"You saw me do it, didn't you?"
Yes, I was watching you.
"You lied to me, told me it would be alright!"
You're alive and well. Better off than you were before, in fact.
"You let it all burn...I won't forgive you."
I did it for you. I did it for us.
He stepped out of the bathroom, a nervous wreck, confused and tongue-tied, dizzy, and went to work. He shouldn't have done it. Years ago, he made the choice he wished he never did. It excited a nerve in him somewhere, though, that let him know he was still alive. He'd simply lit a match.
In his office, he stared at the picture of his wife. The object was a trophy, as was everything else. His wife, like all things that mattered, was now ash.
He stared at the picture on the newspaper clipping, of a burned building. He remembered his childhood and his favorite color and his first pet goldfish. He stared at a tiny mirror on his desk. He remembered his high school girlfriend, and he remembered his first botched job interview at the bank around the corner.
He was obsessed with money. Obsessed with power. Obsessed with his image. But it could all be done away with like a useless match once it had served its purpose. He was getting older. He'd burn out soon. He was the brightest match in the box, but soon he'd be ash. Most of all, he was in love. His heart set alight with an orange glow, the fire burning in his heart, the desire to become perfect. The orange glow. The one that got him the gold medal and his pet goldfish that died when he'd fed it too much. The one that got him the radiant, energetic wife who had burned out too early. But one thing never failed. He could always start anew. He felt like a phoenix.
He unscrewed the cap of the kerosene tub easily. Whatever work went into tightening it weeks before was in vain. He'd already memorized the wood, paper, and drywall of his office, between filing his invoices and calling coworkers for dinner. They called out to him, thirsty. He wasn't going to leave this world without quenching their desire. Now, he had nowhere to go but to his grave, and he phoned the police as he lit a match. He watched as the flames danced around, and he pulled the fire alarm and sat. He lit a fine cigar that no longer needed a lighter, and waited for that nerve to twitch again. He looked back at the mirror once more and smiled. It was the Watcher, and it would watch him until he was gone.
Ashes-ashes-ashes.
© Faraaz Saiduzzaman. All rights reserved.
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