The mirror. Jeremiah stood outside, and the mirror stood inside, and both reflected the darkness. The rain was a voluptuous wraith, the dirt a churning cadaver. They lay together in a bed of indecencies: these two heaving, resentful lovers who despised their coupling.
The mirror gazed back with its dim eye, and I saw the woman staring back at me. Thin, much thinner than before. Raw-boned, with a loose veil of weathered flesh. Eyes much darker than their natural green, hair as gray as soured milk.
Wim had stopped chattering, and the only voice I heard was in the echo of the rainfall. It was a cold voice, a whispery voice, void of compassion, deaf to reason.
“You don’t deserve to live,” said Me. The voice grew solemn with each word. “Inexpiable. It is best to end it.”
The lovers agreed, their voices flat and roaring, and the sound shook the house. I moaned and begged for their silence.
I waited for Jeremiah to disagree, but he was that voice, too. I waited for my own voice, my real voice, to defy them, or it, and it wore me out to find it.
I closed my eyes and waited for the storm to pass.