The face framed in gold stared back at me, always with my own eyes. Sometimes those eyes held tears, sometimes they were happy tears sometimes they were not. The face stared back at me every day, until today.
Today was the first day I didn’t see me in the little gilded hand mirror.
I am 99 years old tomorrow.
44 years ago today the little mirror came home with me from the antiques shop just across Broadway from my favorite coffee house. 44 years ago today I bought myself a birthday present. Every day since, before bed, after washing my face, brushing my teeth, and applying moisturizer, I’ve looked into that mirror. I’ve looked closely for changes, for signs that I’ve made good choices that day. And I’ve mostly adjusted accordingly.
“The moment he saw what the chest contained, he wished he had never opened it… but it was too late now.”
His booties stuck to the viscous mess on the floor. The air was noxious with all of the typical odors you might expect in such a situation. But what was before him was anything but typical. A greenish-gray mass lay steaming and hot under the glare of the sterile light and it wriggled. Nothing was red. Nothing. Red, gore, that would have been expected in a situation such as this. And shouldn’t have been wriggling.
Frank’s gorge rose up. He tucked it back down with a stern will. His hand shook, just a bit. He thought to himself, “Why the hell did I sign up for Exploratory Alien Anatomy Lab 101?”