The Looking Glass
My eyes, fixed steadily upon cheerful passersby on the street below, peer through dark curtains. In contrast to my placid self, these happy souls are at peace with the world. Not so long ago, I was a companion to all, democratic in the society I kept. I see the world, I know the world from my lookout, five-storeys removed from the bustle of a life now abandoned.
After my abrupt withdrawal from constant companionship, these, my true friends, inquired after my state, leaving their cards with Hayworth as he, my faithful butler, politely but firmly turned them all away. Consequently, they ceased further inquiry into my health and caught up with their own lives and made tracks elsewhere. Needless to say, my doorway has not been brightened by old friends for a considerable time.
The August sun has been burning with her characteristic, seasonal fire. I cannot, for the life of me, be rid of this penetrating, bone-biting chill that has settled in at my core. When, one day, I had casually regarded my overall aspect in the bevelled glass of Mother's wardrobe mirror, I was taken aback by an aggressive increase in pallor, an uncharacteristic thinness of my once robust frame, a mallen streak creeping up my scalp.
Months passed, with myself confined to what had once been Mother's suite. I would not allow my curious eyes to wander toward the honesty of silvered glass. With the passage of time, I completely left off wondering about that horrid reflection cast in glass.
Despite my physical self's incremental change over time -- I one day forced myself to look head on into that dread mirror -- what frightened me most was the accelerated fading of my reflection. I looked down; the feet that long supported me were cast in vaporous mist, the fingers that had made music a shadowy tracery that clutched desperately at a face that no longer was . . .
sorry -- double post. took a day to show up.