A weathered face stares back at me from the glass; a face I know all too well. I look at the image of myself, aged beyond years. I examine the contours of the cracked skin, the sunken eyes, the white hair.
So this is what will become of me?
Moving closer, the image distorts in the warped old glass. The dust and muck that has settled on the surface acts as a filter and plays tricks with the light that illuminates the scene. The closer I look the harder it is to see.
He was evidently a troubled man. Time feeds the monsters inside and eventually they crawl out onto the surface. Eventually they make their presence know, they leave their mark. The scars on the old leathered skin mirror those on my own cheeks. I feel the ridges of scar from eye to jawbone.
My mind meanders back through old memories. I remember all those times I’ve moved on from one resting place to another in my never ending journey of life. I remember all the times I’ve met adversaries and defeated them; especially noting the rare few who challenged me. I remember the years of struggle before her and the days of conquest that have transcended every moment that followed.
How many more places must I search?
I lean in. Almost nose-to-nose, my eyes try to fill in the details of the face it sees, the face it knows so well. It’s hard to make everything out through the grime and the darkness, through the years of filth and decay. Dead eyes of my ancestors stare vacantly back at me.
Everything has changed so much since my Blade. I’m older, I feel it in my bones. I can see it in the face behind the glass – a ghostly spectre that stares back. I am no longer the free and wild man of my youth. Now I am experienced and wise. Now I have seen the truth. Now I have my charge and our undertaking. Together we will sanctify our covenant.
I wipe away some of the grime and peer through the streaked glass. I watch the body move in slow motion. I observe the way it hangs there. I tilt my head and take in the slight slant of the head before me. It rocks gently on the rope around the withered neck that hangs below. The body is thin and limp. My neck is thick and my body strong.
My little girl is doing so well. She learns every day. She works so hard to be good for me, to make herself better. She continues to impress me. I push her hard and still she her devotion does not waver. She is truly mine.
I brush away the broken glass vials, cord, rusted needles and other paraphernalia that litter the sink. This place is a mess. It is full of weakness and impurity. Temptation has lead to its decay. It’s hard to imagine how anyone could survive here. I try to imagine how I could survive here. Temptation has no hold over me, not any more.
My beautiful darkling deserves better than this. She deserves a palace fit for the dark princess she is. She needs better than the rotting remains of an old man’s abode.
She deserves better than a hovel where he succumbed to the harsh realities of life, like everyone else. That dead face is no different to the rest, no matter how familiar it may seem to me. They are all the same.
This will not be my fate.
I won’t be found hiding in a derelict bathroom. I won’t be caught screaming in fear. I won’t be cut down so easily. I won’t be cut short, ever. I will not fail.
The flickering lamp light animates his face. Cracked blue lips seem to give the slightest hint of a smirk.
What’s funny, old man?
What does he think he knows? What is it his silence is not saying? I feel the rage build inside. How dare he laugh at me? He is nothing. He knows nothing. He is dead. He is nothing more than dust. I am still here. I am alive. I know all that we need to know. I will not end up like him. I am not like him.
Growling in anger, I take what is mine and turn to walk away.
I will not get drawn into this argument again.
Glancing back from the doorway I look at the pathetic corpse one more time. It continues to sway above the blood stained bathtub, lifeless and alone.
No father, I am not like you.
What is Daddy doing?
The familiarity of his behaviour stirs an anxiety within. His dark brooding acting as foreboding warning that we will move on again soon; his signs all too obvious.
I pout and hope he doesn’t see. Or maybe I don’t care if he does. Maybe then at least I would get some attention and stop him from staring into that silly old mirror. I watch him peer closer, his image reflected in the shiny surface. Moving nose to nose with his reflection self so his breath fogs up the glass.
I like this place. It’s understated but really quite beautiful. The sunlight pours through clean windows, sparkling over perfectly placed ornaments, the treasures of a meticulously organised home. I casually play with a family of wooden ducks I liberated from the dining room dresser, swimming them up and down the satin bedspread whilst I wait for him to come out of the en-suite bathroom and continue our playtime.
I like it here, I feel safe here. I don’t want to move on again. It has little cottagey rooms laid with comfy carpets and little nooks to curl up in to read from the bookcases or colour. The kitchen is well stocked and the garden blooming with flowers. We’ve hardly been here a few weeks and no one’s even looking for us.
This is a good house; no one hurt me so we could live here. No strangers touching my special place.
What is Daddy saying?
He mutters incomprehensibly. Snatches of phrases, “my bones… I… I’ve seen the truth.” Smashing his fist down against the bright white porcelain with determination, clearly agreeing with this own internal argument.
Then my name….his name for me, “My Blade.”
I watch his naked body respond to the word, growing hard as he growls repeatedly, telling his reflection over and over “She’s mine. She’s mine. Mine.”
Mine. I am Daddy’s.
I paw at the air towards his ready erection, standing proud. Returning his growl I yearn for Daddy to turn, to see me, to take me. As he’d promised, downstairs by the fire, curled up and satisfied after dinner. I am ready, Daddy please.
My growls fall on deaf ears, on distracted ears, tuned to something else.
What is my Daddy listening to?
Whipping around in anger to face the bath-tub all I see now is my Daddy’s strong back, rippling as he growls. Primal fury coursing through him, evident in his stance. He stamps his foot with authority, an end to a silent argument. Satisfied he turns to walk away, to come back to me.
I like the way dolly dances on the shower rail, hung up to dry after our play time. The stitched smile never fading, enduring through Daddy’s tirade. It gently sways above the bathtub. The tiles and tub cleaned to perfection after our recent adventure. Cleaned in the way Daddy showed me.
Daddy stops at the door, looking back towards my dolly. I drink him in, toned muscles accentuated by the fading evening light.
My duck friends provide little relief to the aching desire, despite me pushing their hard little bodies against my underwear parts. I rock against the wooden underbelly of the largest, bucking my hips and wishing it was the hardness of my Daddy. I pang for him to return to the present, mindfully in the moment, here with me.
The oddly shaped wooden object makes poor substitute for the throbbing warmth of my Daddy, sliding inside me with a painful stretching. My Daddy’s vacant eyes blind to my desperation to be filled.
The satin bedsheets soak up the blood I spill, staining the lilac comforter with deep red from my veins. Little droplets brightly spattered, their range increasing with the fury of my motion. Faster, deeper giving in to my longing. I finish with a jet crescendo of blood stained ejaculate, it spatters on the floor inches from where my Daddy stands, spurring his statue-like stance into movement, stalking like a prowling wolf towards the bed.
“Daddy.” my squeals fill the air, the warmth of his touch dissipating the biting loneliness that had crept into my heart. I hate it when he goes away like that. I like him here with me. Filing me, taking me, reminding me I’m alive.