The Mirror Room

🔹 Reflections deceive. 🔹 Saviours consume . 🔹 The past decides.

Photo by Aidan Bartos on Unsplash

Stella

I’m at the end and I’m not afraid. No more hiding. I can do this.

Black suit trousers cling to my legs and there’s a bronzed makeup stain on my white shirt. Blood, lipstick and saliva mix in the corner of my mouth and a persistent pain throbs across my brow and jaw. The wall clock ticks next to the certificate announcing me as ‘up and coming’ and I want to rip the skin from my face.

This needs to stop. I’m done. This charade ends today.

I move my arm to clear away the clutter on my desk: empty wine bottles, metal letter openers, tissues spotted with dried blood and reams of reports that I have no clue about the contents. My left foot slams the carpet and my chair smashes against the back wall of my office. If anyone outside notices, they don’t come running.

I wouldn’t expect them to. I’ve built a reputation that keeps people away.

My right foot follows and as I pause to balance in heels against the plush carpet, I grab the door handle and aim for the corridor. By the time I realise where I am, the door to my office is already behind me.

Glass and steel. Red and gold.

My assistant jumps from her chair as I pass, eager to help but I wave her away. This isn’t something that can be brainstormed and managed with a quick call and a crisis meeting with people who shouldn’t be in charge of major budgets.

I spot my reflection as I pass the wall of glass that showcases the suite of empty corporate rooms at my disposal. I shudder at the sight of me and quickly look away. I dive headlong into an empty room and aim for a space under the rectangular mahogany boardroom desk.

I crouch under the table and curl bleeding hands around my legs and, as I wrap my fingers around my trousers my nail snags on the material. I hear voices behind me, in front of me, next to me, is it one voice or two? It’s hard to distinguish the voices in my head.

I listen to the instructions I’m being given. I’ve always been a good girl. Will always follow instructions and do as I’m told.

The noise morphs into the sound of shattering glass.

I smile and nod. This is it. My way out.

I hesitate. Will I hurt myself? I’ve never been good with pain. Will it be over in a second, a minute? What will happen after I wonder? Will those that know me shrug their shoulders and call it inevitable? Where’s the twist though? In these situations there’s unusually a stay of execution, a time for a phone to ring. Is there anyone coming to talk me out of what I’m about to do? To listen as I cry. To beg me not to. To ask me why?

Salty tears splash onto the carpet and a truck thunders past. I blink as a car horn shrieks. I’m tired.

I uncurl my body and pick up a chair. The cushioned fabric moulds into my hand and I sigh with the feel of crushed velvet and smell sandalwood and vanilla.

I remember the feel of my favourite childhood pajamas, of running down a sandy beach towards an ocean that stretched for miles.

As I flex my hand I spot the fire alarm in the corner of the room. This is what I came here for, an audience and fanfare. I was always one for attention. He gave me attention now the attention will be on him.

I place the chair near the window and march towards the red box, slamming my fist into the glass. An alarm sounds that hits the back of my teeth.

I pick up the chair and throw it towards the floor to ceiling window. The glass shatters and I marvel at the poetic sound that is an exact match to the sounds in my head.

Without time to think, I run towards the chair and pick it up where it landed, it’s still intact, the fabric soft and warm to touch peppered with shards of glass. I close my eyes and throw, preparing for the fallout as it hits fresh air and concrete.

Be ready Grant Andrews. I’m coming for you.

*****

Sam

When the call comes in I’m devouring a semi-standard bacon sandwich and watching as the diluted brown sauce drips onto my work trousers.

The van at the edge of the industrial estate has changed hands recently after an unfortunate late night incident that required our services when a chip pan caught fire. Since then the owner legged it, he didn’t want the attention of the Office of Food Safety or whatever they call themselves these days. The new owner is doing things differently but that involves artisan breads and accompaniments that taste like tepid water. I can’t complain too much, anything is a welcome distraction when ravenous.

After a night shift my nostrils tend to cling to the smell of smoke like their life depends on it and no amount of bleach rinses my clothes of the stench.

Luckily, I’m on days this week so the call catches me fresh faced and ready for action.

I gear up and head to the engine which is the job of the trainee to keep clean and tidy. We’ve all gone through it, scrubbing out a night shift truck after eight sweaty blokes have been in it following a curry courtesy of our resident cook. There’s a cupboard somewhere in the bay with a set of gas masks and clean overalls, however the trainee has to find the key and that is a closely guarded secret. I’m long past the trainee stage, and as I wrestle with my boots I count the years: maybe seven?

I love my job. Being a fireman has saved me in many ways. Growing up I became accustomed to hot air and fire courtesy of my dad and his regular lectures so after leaving home it was somehow inevitable that I’d end up here.

However, leaving home is stretching the truth. I was marched out the door by my father after an unforgivable fight that left me homeless and angry. I ended up kipping on the sofa of a mate who, after a night of too much Jack Daniels and a joke about my name, begged me to join him in his endeavours to join the fire service. He said I was boisterous and mouthy enough and if I could stand up to my own narcissistic father and live to tell the tale then a few flames would look like child’s play.

I stayed with him and his missus all through the early days of training and when I eventually moved into my own place, I found a fluffy black and white stuffed cat in my locker. My crew are never short of a punchline when I’m around.

I fold my six foot four frame into the rig and consult with my sergeant who tells me the call is from an office block on the outside of town and the head office of a corporate bank. Some bright spark has pulled the fire alarm and broken a window however there’s been no report of smoke. The Ambulance have been called as a precaution given the broken glass, however there have been no reports of casualties.

The call should be a quick one with possibly a stern word given to the Building Manager and a couple of planks of wood. Sarge puts me in charge of crowd control and a general building sweep as apparently I’ve got the best charm of the lot of us, which isn’t a compliment.

I pull back my overgrown fringe and look around at the bunch of misfits I share my days and nights with and smile inwardly. There’s Nige who’s due retirement and already thinking about his golf swing. Dev is new and if he’s not careful will end up with a slap as his lad banter verges on stupidity. Josie’s new herself but diligent and quiet. Dev fancies her but I gather she thinks he’s a dick which I’m not about to disagree with.

I take a small breath and hold back a silent tear for the one that isn’t with us. I remind myself I can’t save everyone.

The truck trundles down the main road, lights flashing, and I take a minute to calm myself. I stroke the healed scar on my right bicep and reflect on the responsibilities of the job.

With the background noise of crew chatter, a flood of disjointed memories invade my senses, and with well practised ease, I compartmentalise the good from the bad and bury the images I no longer wish to see.

This pre-call ritual has become second nature to me and I wonder if I’ve become jaded. I’ve tried to mention it to Sarge a few times when he’s pulled me in for the standard monthly wellbeing chat, however I don’t quite know what to say. Instead I pretend that I’m one of the gang and return to my four walls with an overflowing ashtray stinking laundry basket, a sink that neatly fits five dinner plates and two takeaway cartons before they spill onto the floor and a ringed coffee table that holds a six pack of beer.

I remember Sarge pulling me aside at last year’s festive bash and warning me about turning up for work stinking like a brewery. After that I’d curbed my consumption. He told me his door was always open if I needed to talk and then ended the conversation with a warning that just because I was half a foot taller than him didn’t mean he couldn’t give me a good slap.

Truth be told, I don’t talk. I mean I talk enough but not really talk. I grew up with a dad who shouted his achievements from the rooftops and it’s not my style.

I’ve seen enough in my seven years to write a book, the smell of a fire after it’s burnt out or the sight and feel of what fire can do to human skin. I’ve won awards for bravery however the brave ones are the people who recover after losing loved ones and each of those losses stays with me longer than it needs to.

One loss in particular.

The sound of sirens brings me back as our driver Mike sighs about the state of the morning traffic. Mike follows up with a blast of colourful language as he tries to negotiate a tight bridge over a brook at the entrance of the office block. We park lengthways and are met in the car park by a swarm of evacuated people.

I listen as Sarge directs us, catching Nige as he swipes at Dev to put away his phone. I pop on my helmet, smooth back my hair and adjust the straps on my jacket, heading towards the front of the building with a determined trot.

I’m greeted immediately by the office’s fire marshall who’s wearing a yellow high vis and a pair of glasses that are too big for her face. As she consults a clipboard and waves an unnecessary stopwatch, she tells me that most of the first floor is empty apart from the office where it happened.

She points to a chair that is upside down next to the bushes and tells me the person who threw it is refusing to come down. I adopt my best smile and ask if there are any injuries and she shrugs, mumbling something about an employee and an unnecessary fracas.

As she continues, I turn my head and spot the Ambulance as it arrives. I wave over a Paramedic as she continues with mumblings about crazy and attention seeking. I smile and nod, shouting for Josie to give me a hand and usher the fire marshall towards the hordes of people who are demanding her attention, briefing the Paramedic on what we know so far.

As I adjust my gear, my eyes instinctively sweep the entrance of the building, surveying the scene and making a mental note on what needs to be done. As I do I lock eyes with a middle aged man standing off to one side with a small team of younger people around him. He exudes authority. His poise reminds me of a predator and I know at that moment I’m looking at the guy in charge.

An air of arrogance floats above his perfect appearance and as the reflecting light from the glass catches his steely stare he reminds me of my father. A cold shudder passes over me and I’m taken back to the last moments with my dad and him barking orders at me to leave and never come back.

There was another person there at that time and, now as I look over my shoulder and spot Josie, I have to blink and adjust myself.

Is that my sister in the crowd? What is Steph doing here?

*****

Stella

The firm alarm sends the building into chaos as it throbs and surfs through the noise. I sit in broken glass, half asleep and half awake and am generally pleased with myself.

This should get his attention and until I see him I’m not moving.

My assistant AJ is sitting with me, holding my hand and brushing away debris. I casually glance down where I’m slumped and I’m bleeding, at least I think it’s my blood.

The draft from the window catches my loose ponytail, my blonde hair caressing my face and I’m once more reminded of him; how he stroked my face and told me the world is a better place with me in it.

I hum a tune in my head as the voice of my mother pierces my brain. This is all I deserve, I’ve been bad again. I hear voices but not sure where they’re coming from and continually shake my head. I’m not leaving. I get to choose and here is where I’m staying.

I rub my eyes and smooth down my trousers. I notice that the heel of my shoe is broken and I smile. I remove both shoes and throw them behind me, hoping they will follow the chair.

Maybe I’ll be next.

I sit, silent and still as I wait for him to arrive, sure he’ll be here to take charge. The sound around me is louder than the thoughts in my head, louder than the memories of this place. The glass doors swing open and AJ leaves, I’m alone but hopefully not for long.

I curl my knees up to my chest as the persistent thud of my heartbeat pounds against the wall I’m leant against. Noise continues around me and I’m sure I hear my name being shouted but I stay quiet as the cold draft presses against my clothes. My eyes burn and my mouth tastes like glass.

I shouldn’t have done it. But I had to. I had to get his attention.

The sound of heavy footsteps echo in the corridor. Deliberate and searching and I sit up straight.

He’s found me.

I freeze and squeeze my eyes closed, readying myself for confrontation. I hear a voice, low and careful,

‘Are you injured?’ The voice is gentle, firm and unfamiliar. ‘I’m with the fire team. I have a Paramedic with me. We just want to check if you’re ok and if we can get you out of here.’

I hear him breathing. His boots stop opposite my bare feet.
‘No need to panic if that’s what you’re doing. We’re here to help.’ Silence. I can do this for days. I didn’t come here for him. He has to go.

‘I can wait. You don’t have to talk. But I’m not leaving without you.’ A pause. I can feel his breath on my bare skin and hear a distant crackle as his radio breaks the silence.

‘You’re not in trouble. Whatever happened… you’re not.’ My throat tightens, and the sob breaks before I can catch it. This isn’t how I imagined it going.

I fumble with my limbs, uncurling my stiff body and rubbing my face with my bleeding hands. As I lift my head I blink into the lightly tanned face of a late thirties fireman. His jacket is half unzipped and he’s holding a scuffed helmet under one arm as his hand adjusts the volume of his radio. His brown hair is damp with sweat and he’s frowning but not in a bad way.

His eyes find mine. Hazel. Pools of brown flexed with gold. Curious. Present.

‘Hi, I’m Sam.’ My face turns and I wonder if this is a wind up. Perhaps this is one more trick he’s pulled to make me doubt my sanity. He spots my look,

‘I promise you that is the name my mother gave me at birth, however I’m sure she didn’t realise I’d be a fireman so I can’t be too mad at her. What’s your name? I have a colleague with me who is also called Sam and she is here to check you out for injuries. Is that ok?’ I listen as his words bounce off me.

I want to say my name, but at that moment all I can do is nod. If this is the way it has to happen then so be it. He offers me his hand.

For some reason, I take it.

*****

Sam

As I shake the vision of my sister, I blink again and see only Josie who confirms that there is definitely a woman inside and she might be injured.

I ask for a name however the people around her look sheepish and scuttle off towards the waiting hoard. The man in charge is handed a phone and stares in my general direction, ordering me with his eyes to head back into the building.

His stare is entitled and bored and he glances at his watch as a colleague close by hands him a stack of papers. Whatever mess this is, he wants me to mop it up. If this is a disgruntled colleague who was fired for fiddling their expenses then I’m going to be fuming.

As Josie searches for more information I go with the assumption it was the woman that pulled the alarm before throwing the chair at the window. My fear is that she may want to follow it out so we have to get up there sharpish and bring her down.

I don’t hesitate. I never do. It’s a habit that I’ve formed over many years.

Find the lost ones, bring them out, make it better.

The building is quiet, vibrating with a thrum of silence after Nige managed to deactivate the alarm. With the Paramedic in toe, we climb the plush stairs and enter through heavy weighted double glass doors into a vast hallway. I think well on my feet. Always ready with an answer and a solution. I alert the space to our presence and walk silently through banks of desks, expansive offices and a fully equipped kitchen.

I hear my voice. Loud and powerful. I step inside the office at the end of the hallway, slow, careful. I’ve done this many times before in hallways and houses and schools filled with smoke, but never like this.

The look on her face makes me catch my breath. She looks like she’s unraveling. Blonde hair loose and frayed around her cheeks, eyes wide and searching. Her arms are wrapped around her and she looks like she’s been swimming in glass, her clothes caked with it. Her chin is lifted.

She looks like a woman on a mission. I recognise that look. It’s enough to break my heart. She’s beautiful, yes, but more than that, she’s undone.

And with a flood that catches me unexpectedly I want to instantly be the one to put her back together. I talk with the first words that come to mind. I try to sound reassuring and authoritative. This could still go awry and I have to be prepared for anything. My scar tingles. I can’t drop my guard. Still nothing. I introduce myself. I see the look. I feel the need to act clever and cocky. Split the tension in the air.

I hear a sound, sharp and small. I recognise it as a painful breath. A sob. She doesn’t speak. Just nods, eyes glossy but focused. I offer her my hand without urgency and when she takes it, something shifts in my chest. She doesn’t know it yet. But I do.

This matters.

As the Paramedic checks her over and gently cleans her hands and wrists I remove my jacket and place it over her shoulders. I think of my sister again. I think of Steph.