“Are you ready to talk about the glass?”
I looked up slowly and regarded the woman who had spoken. Her tastefully painted skin was creased with lines of practiced concern. A strong furrow in the brow, pleating around the lips, little flakes of powder settled in the hollows. There wasn’t anything particularly remarkable about her, so I turned my attention back to the large, square mirror mounted on the wall.
“Mrs Whitmore, Ana, this can only work if you meet me halfway.” This time she didn’t, or couldn’t, conceal the irritation my silence caused, and I sighed a little, before drawing a deeper breath.
“What is it you want me to say Dr Eldridge?” I offered, folding my hands in my lap like my mother used to.
“I want you-” The tightness in her jaw released, just a little. “-To tell me about the glass.”
I paused, allowing myself an uncensored grin.
“Yes. I imagine you do.”
***
I had spent the day before at home, attending to some chores and preparing for the evening’s visitors. My husband busied himself in the study, absorbed in his own pre-party ritual, and I was unusually grateful for his absence.
On readying all that I could ahead of time, I hurried upstairs to change. This had always been my favourite part of entertaining. There was something transformative about the process that made me feel as though I was emerging from a chrysalis, no longer a drab and practical homemaker, but reborn as glittering mistress of the night’s festivities.
I took a seat, straightening my back, and settled in front of the dressing table mirror. Tilting my chin the reflection beamed back from broad, silvered panes, and I examined myself from all available angles.
Times like these made my vanity into an altar. It was as though simply by being there I was transported to a world formed entirely of myself. Each perfume bottle and polished bauble reflecting and revealing a facet of me; some luminescent, some distorted, but all perfect in their way. The thousand contrary truths that made up my person, split apart for a moment, each yearning to be appreciated for their own, unique glory.
Yes. This was the part I enjoyed the most. And I smiled as I set to my task.
The illusion didn’t take long to complete, I had a skilled and practiced hand. Threading a pearl through each earlobe as punctuation, I took a moment to admire the image I had created, before tidying away all evidence of artifice.
I had been happy, in a state of self-indulgent bliss, until voices forced their way into the room, and almost imperceptibly the woman before me changed. No longer was my reflection composed and contented. The muscles of my eyes and temples constricted ever so slightly, the sinews of my neck had pulled taught, my mouth set in a tight, damson line.
Peals of laughter came again, ricocheting through the hall.
She was here.
With familiar but not insubstantial effort, I willed myself into a breezy countenance, and shook the remnants of tension from my body with a gentle shiver. I had long since learned that serenity was the best defence against carrion feeders like Caroline. Her haughty guffaws took up more space than was decent in my home, and I while loathed the imposition, I resolved to be civil, for Gregory’s sake.
“Darling!” He waved me over, and I draped an arm across his shoulder.
“Caroline was telling me about her new exhibition. We really must go”
I smiled. Gregory was a good man, a clever man, but too easily taken in by smiling charlatans. His unquestioning trust in the world was a deeply endearing quality, and I loved him for it. But his innocence blinded him to the machinations of others. He saw Caroline as a friend, an artist, and harmless eccentric. I knew her to be a mercenary cynic; a hyena in human form.
“Ana! You look tremendous!” Her voice was shrill and false. “Here, take this. Something for the house” She sniggered and thrust a bottle at me, barely taking a breath before carrying on with her sales pitch.
The wretched woman was chattering away, every so often bursting with more violent laughter. Gregory tittered politely, but I could only suffer so much, and made my excuses, praying silently for the arrival of further company to dilute the conversation.
I loved our kitchen. Like the rest of the house, I had curated it painstakingly. High glossed countertops shone under the spotlights, and clear cabinets held row after row of cut, coloured, and blown vessels. Settling on two dainty tulip goblets, I poured a generous measure of our least welcome guest’s sickly liqueur token in each.
The spirit clung to the side of the glass; swollen pink veins reaching for the rim.
I had thought about bringing one for myself but settled against it. Instead, I planned to capitalise on the drink forcing Caroline’s silence long enough to move the party to the lounge. There was more space and potential for separation once the others arrived, and I needed to rescue my poor, endlessly gracious husband.
As I left the crystal calm of my beautiful kitchen, her voice assaulted my ears once again. The air seemed to rattle with relentless fractured pitch as she continued her stream of mindless babble, beating Gregory’s kind replies into submission.
For the briefest of moments her gasp came as a relief; it was a much more natural sound, not in the manner of her usual affectations, and I blithely wondered what had surprised her as I turned into the corridor.
“Gregory, you’ve something in your eye” Her nails darting at his face like pincers.
No.
She cannot. She must not.
Fear gripped my chest, and I cast the glasses to the ground in my hurry, icy splinters and fruity ichor spilling onto the tiles. I couldn’t have cared less. My only thought was of him, but I was too late.
Caroline was pawing at his face with her cheap French tips, one hand vice-like under his chin, the other, smearing the red tear that ran down his cheek.
“Almost got it, hold still…”
Bile rose in my throat, and I opened my mouth, but couldn’t speak.
No. My thoughts were frantic. Please, no.
“Aha!” Caroline was triumphant. Gregory was dazed. Her fingers were smeared with steaks of watered down rust, and his face was a mess. I took a step toward him, reaching out in appeal, desperately wanting to hold him, when our eyes met, forcing me to a stop.
His left was bloodied and blown; half closed from the trauma. Gregory raised a protective hand and pressed the palm against the hollow of his socket, all the while holding my gaze.
“YOU” The word was vicious. All loving softness gone, replaced by a steely hatred.
Caroline looked so confused, I almost pitied her.
“We should really get you to a doctor-”
She squeezed the top of his arm. His breathing was shallow and quick, his pulse throbbing at his temple. The tension in his body had built so much he was practically vibrating, the fingers of his free hand clenched into a fist.
Caroline tried again to coax him, stammering about driving to the hospital and avoiding infection. He stood unmoved, and unmoving.
“-Greg?” Her appeal hung between us.
Caroline released his arm and took a step back, visibly disturbed by the sudden shift in character.
For my part, the icy grip on my heart had released, dissipated, and been replaced by solemn resignation. I had always known this was a possibility, though I had clung to a desperate hope that the day would never come. Gregory had been my greatest triumph, my purest love. Though not desolate, I was sorry to lose him, especially like this.
“WITCH!” He spat, saliva mingling with the congealed blood on his bottom lip.
Releasing his ruined eye, my husband launched himself at me, erupting with rage. It was a valiant effort, and I admired his spirit for the last time, making a conscious note to remember his fury just as fondly as his compliance.
I flicked my wrist.
Our home, my home, was my creation. Gregory’s money may have seen to the acquisition and labour, but the design was mine alone. I had meticulously chosen each feature; every trinket, every door, every surface. They had all been painstakingly sourced and installed to my specifications. Everyone who visited marvelled at the artistry and sheer volume of flawless, gleaming, unyielding glass.
They never stood a chance.
Gregory gurgled at my feet, the larger shard in his throat jutting out, coated in arterial spray like a macabre collar. I leant down, sweeping his hair back into place. He was gone before I drew away, and I closed his eyes in a final gesture of tenderness.
The shatter had been less kind to Caroline, and she lay twitching and whimpering. Her life seeping from the thousand tiny cuts that shredded her flesh, as shock began to take hold.
I held her hand, and she looked at me with a wretched pleading expression, mistaking my touch for comfort. Slowly I peeled back her fingers, retrieving the tiny mirrored shard she had so deftly plucked from Gregory’s eye.
It all happened so quickly she’d had no chance to dispose of it, a small mercy, and as I watched her expire with a shudder, I pressed the fragment’s fine point into my breast.
***
The dour little woman squinted at the papers in her hand.
“The police report states that at 7:41pm you called 911 and reported that you had killed your husband and Caroline Moyer.”
“That is correct.” I nodded.
“May I ask why?”
In truth, I hadn’t given the call a great deal of thought until the question was posed, though I knew that was not what she was asking.
“I suppose because no one else was likely to. And I didn’t want to startle my guests.”
Dr Eldridge pinched the bridge of her nose and shot a sideways glance at the mirror.
“Mrs Whitmore, I am just trying to understand what happened. I can only help you if you’re honest with me.” The furtive looks were becoming more frequent. She was giving herself away.
“And what makes you think I need your help?” My smile shone back at me as I rose to my feet.
She fumbled to articulate a reply, moving her lips soundlessly, caught off guard by my movement.
“I- I don’t think you grasp how serious the situation is.” Slowly, but steadily her mask of professionalism returned, and she summoned a thin tone of authority back to her voice.
“Now please, Mrs Whitmore, take a seat.” She said, gesturing at the chair behind me.
I ran a finger along the false frame while considering my reply, meeting her discomforted stare in the reflection.
"I'm bored of talk Doctor, allow me to show you"
It took a moment before she understood my meaning, and as fear widened her eyes I smiled again.
Indulging in a final scan of the cool, smooth surface of the mirror, I turned to face her.
And flicked my wrist.