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My Mirror Speaks

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She stands there, letting the wind whip by, letting the sounds of the city wrap around her. She stands on the middle of the roof, of the building long since cleared of corpses and debris. Looking down, she swears she can almost smell the gunpowder, the blood. She swears she can see the blood stains, though the rain has long since washed them away. This rooftop, she curses it, she hates it. But she can’t leave. This rooftop was where her world ended. Or where it began. She’s no longer sure. She scuffs a sneaker against the concrete, looking up to stare at the view. It’s a nice rooftop, and she hates it. The view is pleasant, the building is the ideal height to view the world below. She wants to scream, to cry out. She wants to let the world know what this rooftop took away from her. She wants the world to know what she’s lost, where the road of her life diverged so drastically. Her world isn’t over, but it’s different. And as she stares, stoically, at the flurry of life below, the urge to scream rises within her. She cannot stand it, staring down at the people below. They don’t understand what goes on behind their cushy lives, they have no clue who and what her people lose to keep their lives simple. Free. She wants to cry out even more now, she wants to ask them if they know what has been lost. But she also knows that the person waiting for her inside, the reason why she’s on this rooftop, wouldn’t want that. And she has already vowed to give that person the world. She keeps her vows. She keeps her word.

She stands there for a moment longer, staring at roof around her. If she looks hard enough, she feels like she can see the scene. It feels like it just happened, but at the same time, it feels like it happened years ago. Her mind can’t make up its mind. She swears up and down she can pinpoint the place her lover fell. She can pinpoint the place where she laid out the man that shot that person. Her person. Hers. She put six or seven bullets in that man, and she doesn’t regret it. She doesn’t even blink when she recalls his death, because he hurt what is hers. The damage he did cannot be repaired in a few weeks. Not even months. If they come out the other side, it will take years. And yet she cannot be sad, not truly. Because that person is still alive, that person waits for her inside. That person means everything to her, and she no longer takes for granted the life they share together. Each dawn, each day, is brighter. Sharper than ever before. She turns away from the empty rooftop, no longer having the heart to hate it. The road before them is long, but she’s determined. As is the person waiting inside for her. They’ll get through this, together. She knows they will.

That moment she takes to look at the rooftop once more ends. She knows she’ll never come back here, for many reasons. She knows the baggage of this place no longer belongs in her life, she no longer has a need for it. She turns away sharply, not because she’s upset. She’s eerily calm, calmer than she expected she would be. She only came to reconcile the past with herself, and she has done that. She walks quickly to the door, to the access she has now used twice to reach the roof. She steps inside the door, closing it behind her. Technically, the building is no longer a crime scene. Now, it’s just empty. Empty save for two people. She lets her eyes adjust to the interior, standing against the door. As her eyes adjust, she walks toward her lover.

“Do you …” Her lover trails off and she tries not to frown. Tries not to let her concern show. That person has trouble with words these days, and she has learned not to interject or correct her. It only upsets her. So she stays quiet, and waits for the right words to come. “… regret it?” Her lover finishes and looks up at her. She shakes her head and offers her lover a small smile, crouching down to the level of the wheelchair.

“I regret a lot of things, but no. I do not regret killing him.” She says, reaching out to hold her lover’s right hand. It’s always the right hand that she holds now, because her lover cannot feel her left. It bothers her lover, she knows that, so she makes a conscious effort to focus on the right side. They share a quiet moment before her lover speaks again.

“Are we finished here?” That person asks quietly and she nods in response, standing. She turns and situates herself so that she can push the wheelchair.

“Yes, we are.” She says, finding the answer holding more than one meaning. She will never come back here, and for that, she’s glad. She turns the chair towards the elevator and begins walking. She has gotten the closure she wants, she’s finished with the place. She has their lives ahead of them, and she has already decided she will no longer look back.