It was high time I told myself, to see that looking glass once more—to visit its wake and see the magnificence of it bereft of life, bloodless, shattered. I stood along a dark hallway, walked a thousand steps, feeling the lifeless bricks that encased me. As I walked farther, silent screams echoed at the forefront. How many years had it been, I thought? One would think that such wretchedness would demise in age, but the cries were still faintly bouncing off the dead walls for recognition. The air became heavier as I walked, the darkness eerily familiar. At last I came to a halt, groped for the knob but found an opened door. The last visitor reeked of bad perfume, stinging the insides of my nostrils. The room was how I left it, I was not surprised. The furnitures were covered in grit, the walls still bear a faded crimson. However, instead of a thousand fragments, I saw only one gleaming shrapnel lying still on the floor. The rest were all glued together on one side of the wall as if a kid has made a jigsaw puzzle out of it. I stood in front of the skewed mirror, touched the oddly fitted glass with so much awe. A jagged piece in the puzzle cut my hand, and the moment of marvel was shoved at hindsight. It was not perfect. I was right.
Posted on Friday, 11 March 2011
