Reflections of a Mirror

~Prologue~

It?s funny the things you remember, the things you forget. Every possible moment that holds as much significance as a grain of sand within memory. I thought it would be easier to be more sympathetic to my circumstances. Instead when I found myself looking down at the body at my feet all I could think about was the past.

All I could think about was the past and the idle concern I had of how I was going to get the blood stains off my shoes. Part of me was starting to wonder how I had become so detached and cold and then I remembered.

They had taken everything from me, everything of importance and significance had been ripped away till all I could hold on to was the memory of my breath fogging glass and a smudged handprint against a window.

That and the vision of a man standing on the other side watching me watching him? or was I watching him watching me? The moment seemed to hold some sort of significance but all I found myself fascinated with was the glass and that smudged print.

The print I knew to be mine forged from the hand that right now was sheathed in a white glove painted rose red by a recent kill. How did I get here, how did I get this far lost that?s what I wanted to know even when I realized I didn?t care. Tabula rasa painting roses red. It was laughable. I hadn?t fallen down the rabbit hole nor was I the little girl lost. This just was where I had ended up. Just a shattered fragment. A half of a whole left unfilled when the other half was taken away.

Mirror. Mirror. On the wall?

There were no mirrors here but the chant rang sing song through my head. Poetic verse becoming nothing more than a cacophonic agony of prose in my head. So many annoyances to ebb and swell within the otherwise empty void of my thoughts. Pretty patterns on a white canvas. I?m sure I knew deep down that someone had messed with my memories, but I was too indifferent and too far gone to care.

This place smelled far too clinical. It reminded me of a hospital after trauma or maybe it was more the aroma of the aftermath of a serial killer with obsessive compulsive disorder. The stench of bleach was blending in with the scent of death and the sweet cloying perfume of fresh spilled blood. I knew it was time to go. To get out of here before it was far too late. At least my instincts and my intuition were still on my side.

It was only an afterthought that had me removing my boots to leave at the side of the recently departed. Oddly I had no concern about socks leaving imprints or give away for where I had been and where I would be. I remembered at least through all the chaos of emptiness in my mind that as soon as I walked out the door I would be someone else. Nameless and nothing. Just another face in the crowd? and that?s exactly what I wanted them to believe.

The condensation stained the bathroom mirror in a way that reminded her of shattered tears and broken hearts. The swipe of her palm against the surface brushed such a fanciful thought away as Palomino never claimed she was any sort of romantic. The touch of fingertips to the shining light touched edge of the mirror caused her nothing more then annoyance. Hardly for the reason of touch but instead of what the mere touch brought her.

Memories.

Those that didn't seem her own as they were so strange and so unfamiliar. A life not her own. Was it ever truly hers to believe in after all? Still it was the mirrors that always trigged the flashblacks. The man on the other side of a two way mirror that was supposed to shield one from the other, the impression of another man gunned down in a blood bath he wasn't meant for.

Names and faces unknown and yet seeming so familiar.

Palomino's senses flared to life, a smooth whiskey burn of wonder and recollection as she grabbed her keys from the vanity and shrugged on the leather jacket that seemed like a second skin to her.

Casual comforts were leather jackets born to women that wore them as security blankets against the cold.

The cold of her own soul, her very heart. For a moment the placid shine of amber eyes was left in ruin by the white hot hatred she had yet to understand.

It was still just a passing moment of emotion, so very fleeting as she found herself once more out in the open breathing in the night air as she looked up at the stars. Still to Palomino it never mattered just how beautiful the stars could be from the rare views she could have of them in the city. Instead she found it mattered when she noticed the way the mist could cling and linger near the moon.

Just like smoke moving against a mirror. All those polished surfaces and sweet coils of truth and lies. Something of the beauty in that moment left her bittersweet and nostalgic even as the crisp click of her boots on the sidewalk sounded out a rhythm to leave the very notion behind.