Third Person

"Third Person"

The glass frosted over as she leant forward and placed both her hands on the mirror and sighed with a quiet resigned exasperation. Her warm breath fogging up the cold surface. She placed the palm of her right hand onto the shiny black surface to wipe the moisture of the mist from her breath, which had formed an ever widening circle of condensation, which it would seem, to all intent and purpose was now blocking her limited view. As she wiped her palm in a circular motion, round and round on the mirror, to an onlooker it would seem, as if she was in fact waving to something far beyond her, or possibly closer.

She dropped her left hand, collected the lit candle again from the small antique French cabinet next to her and held her left hand aloft, while she took a step closer again to the mirror’s surface. This time, she placed her forehead against it’s cold repel and lifting her right hand up to the mirror, placed her index finger on the glass and tapped three times in staccato repetition. What on earth was she about? She was looking for something, peering so intently into the void, for what, anyone observing her would never fully comprehend, nor probably ever understand the rudimentary reason for such a disconcerting display of well, perhaps, sheer lunacy. Her lips moved silently. Was she talking to herself? What was she saying? Was she saying the words in English or was it a foreign language from a far away exotic shore. Perhaps she was speaking in tongues, the situation was ripe enough for a good speaking in tongues. If there was any reason at all to this puzzle, another person, a second person, an observer would just ask outright, “Whatever are you doing?”.

An observer would find her whole stance and behaviour, somewhat irrational. Maybe in her silent movements of head turn to the right, head turn to the left, at regular intervals, eyes never leaving the mirror, always looking for something, possibly looking at something, that was there, or not there - well, to an onlooker, this would be perceived as bordering on insanity. What on earth was she looking for? Or for that matter, looking at? And what was the conversation she was having with herself? How she could see anything at all, was rather baffling to say the least. For here she stood in an entirely darkened room, hand to mirror, nose to mirror, forehead to mirror, the only light source a small flickering candle held in her left hand, the hot wax sliding onto her skin and not flinching at all. Not one bit. Perhaps she had been here for quite some time and had now become immune to the stinging pain of hot wax on her skin. Perhaps she was medicated in some way and now, poor soul, was numb, she never felt a thing. To an observer, it would appear she was mad.

She whispered words that only herself or whatever she thought she was conversing with on the other side of the mirror, could distinguish entirely, if there was any sense of it to be made at all. An observer, if in the room with her, would not only query what she was about, but would silently approach her, stand close behind her, place a hand gently on her shoulders, try not to frighten her and softly enquire of her, “Whatever are you doing? Whatever are you looking for?” A rational observer would suggest to her, perhaps she would have a better chance of seeing whatever she was intent on seeing, if she just turned on the overhead light .

But no, not this observer. This observer was more intent on letting her be. This observer was mesmerised by the sheer mystery of it all and would stand at a distance, close somewhere in the dark – away, but always near, waiting for a possible outcome. Of course he could be here all night. This could be a very slow study. But this was sheer entertainment to say the least and he was beguiled and intrigued and it was certainly a unique experience, to observe her at play and with anonymity. He was, he thought with a thrill, a rush of pure unadulterated adrenalin, observing her like a criminal intent on stealing something precious.

A sound. What was that he heard? “Shush,” he quietened his mind, controlled his rising excitement. He listened keenly, without making a noise himself.

“I knew you were there. I knew you would come. I’ve been watching and waiting for you.” She stood back a little. Her voice lifted an octave but still it was soft, conspiratorial. She was elated, that much was obvious..

The light surrounding the candle she held in her left hand flamed higher, splattered and sizzled loudly, as if a phantom wind had blown or spewed alcohol like a circus performer into the fiery torch. The room flickered, dancing lights pirouetted against walls not seen until now and the shadows from all solid matter stationed within the room, were collected and cast as visible, for a short spell. The observer backed into the shadows.

It seemed to the observer that the mirror pulsated slowly with a low eerie blue glow. He heard her short intake of breath, and then she giggled, the way a small child would giggle out in a playground full of small children. The scene was rather disconcerting and a chill ran through his body. Unseen, he felt the mood of the room was certainly transitioning, the atmosphere had become strange and off-kilter, the air was thick (if air could be thick at all) and the temperature was becoming positively Arctic. He felt like he was swaying, or the room was swaying around him in time to a vibration, so strange, nothing of the like he had sensed in his entire life. Sub-dimensional, lower-realm, etheric, he felt. His excitement was suddenly turning into a mounting sense of fear. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and a dread of sorts, unlike any terror he had felt in his life prior to this moment, was slowly rising within him. A cold, stentorian wind suddenly blew out from the mirror, mist reaching out it’s tentacles around the room. He could feel his heart pumping overtime, as a certain sensation cut up from his stomach full speed right into his throat. He could see his own breath cutting the fine mist in the room.Still, he observed.

Materialising through the mirror was a luminescent hand, long slender fingers attached to a delicate ethereal wrist. The hand held out to her, a jagged piece of parchment, the colour of ancient bones. He observed encircling the wrist was a very fine gold chain and dangling from the chain, a key. The hand beckoned her to move forward. She reached out towards the spectral hand and gently grasped the paper. Communication was held between her and the Other, the parchment now a bridge from one realm to another. Time stood still.

A third person had entered the story.

(c) Leanne Lovejoy-Burton 2017

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