By Raven Parker Addams
No one in New York paid attention. He liked that.
He also particularly relished this post-rain sunshine.
Taking a deep breath, Dorian started toward the waterfront. This was his ideal way to start the day. It had been for a century.
Immigrating to New York had been his best move. The city offered exceptional museums, architecture, and clubs.
Especially the clubs. Something once unheard of was now a place where everyone could sing and celebrate at the top of their lungs.
More than once, he thought he’d been born in the wrong century. But as he paid for his coffee, he found he appreciated this era more knowing how much it took to get here.
***
He strolled through the botanical gardens, lingering among the immaculately-tended rosebushes, taking care to avoid the reflective metal plaques below, and savored the moment. The delicate buds unfurled, glimmering in the sunlight.
It was these rarities he lived for. These little perfections.
***
As he left the gardens, pandemonium assaulted his senses. Traffic lights flashed red, and horns blared.
Stopping by a stationary cab, he rapped on the driver’s window.
“What’s going on?”
The cabbie gestured to the lights, then pointed at the subway sign and waved him off.
Dorian straightened, scowl deepening. He hated the subway. Not only was it loud and dirty, but it was crowded with common people.
Still, desperate times called for desperate measures.
He bought a MetroCard, ruing the wasted money, and continued onto the platform. He despised waiting, surrounded by mediocre musicians, homeless beggars, and… rats. He shuddered slightly, willing the train to arrive faster as the platform filled up.
When it finally screeched to a halt, the passengers disembarked, and he stared fixedly as their reflections passed in the interior mirror, avoiding their eyes as he waited for an opening. A weary nurse stumbled out, followed by a hobo, a man with two kids, and an attractive girl.
He stood straighter and searched for the exiting girl, but the only person to step out behind the man with the kids was an old lady. She struggled down the step, disappearing into the crowd.
He hesitated, watching her, then hastened to secure a seat.
Inside the car, he looked for any sign of the girl. Perhaps she’d stayed on and just changed seats?
No, she wasn’t in the car, and she hadn’t come off.
Unless…
He looked back at the platform and scanned the crowd one last time. He caught a faint glimpse of her reflected in the darkened window—a glimpse of a beautiful girl—before his car pulled into the tunnel.
***
Dorian burst into his apartment, mind reeling.
He hesitated only a second before pulling off the black curtain covering his mirror and revealing his true self.
He scoured his reflection, but was met only with the sight of his crepey skin, marred with scars, stretched and sagging over his old, hollowed face, offering him no answers.
It didn’t make sense. That beautiful woman in the reflection must have been the old woman. But how? How could she be like him if she was only young when reflected? He needed to find out more about her.
***
For the next month he awaited her daily arrival at the garden and followed her from there.
She seemed ordinary, albeit generous. She’d do errands here and there. Sometimes, she’d pay for other’s groceries, or volunteer at food banks, or occasionally drop new MetroCards on the ground in front of homeless people.
By the month’s end she looked tired, frail, and frankly, much older. But she looked happy now, gazing at the roses in the morning light.
“It really is beautiful, isn’t it, Dorian?”
He froze.
She looked back at him.
“Don’t be shy now. You’ve been following me for a while.”
He emerged from the arbor and stood next to her, uncertain of what to say. She looked back at the bush. “Black Baccara is my favorite. The dark, bloody tone contrasts beautifully with the sparkling dew, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Beautiful.” He hesitated. “Like your reflection.”
She looked up at him with a sad smile. “But not like yours, I’m afraid.”
“What do you mean?” How could she know? His reflection always appeared normal to other people.
“You know perfectly well what I mean.” She looked at him seriously. “There are only two ways out of this.”
“Out of what?” he asked.
“You can try to destroy the portrait, but that destroys you as well.”
He was silent for a moment before finally adding, “Or?”
“Or, you can try to restore it.”
“I can’t. Nothing works.” He studied the flower in its new beauty, noting how quickly it would fade. Then he asked, “Why do you look like this when your reflection looks so perfect?”
She shook her head. “Do you know what mirrors do?” she asked finally.
“Reflect?”
“They reflect our true selves—our souls.”
He stared silently at the bloom for a moment before turning away.
“Tell me,” she added. “Have you ever seen anything more beautiful than relief on a weary face? Or a smile on a child?”
He turned back to answer, but she was gone. He was alone in the garden once more.
***
He returned to the subway station, out of routine.
On the platform, a little girl stood with her mother, holding a balloon. As he watched, it slipped from her fingers, rising gently beyond her reach. She cried out, but he caught it and returned it to her.
“Thanks, mister!” she said, grinning. She studied his face for a moment before her brow furrowed. “Are you okay?”
He looked down at his hands. Perfect skin mere moments ago had now changed. His veins now bulged, and his knuckles began to gnarl.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
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Loved the message embedded in this story! Great job, Raven!
Well done!!
I very much enjoyed the redemption arc! Good story. :)
Clever twist!
Nicely done! I like your theme of self-reflection (pardon the pun).