Shattered Reflections

Trigger warnings: mental health and gore

Kevin jerked awake, his heart pounding, he hadn't had that nightmare in years, the one where he mutilated his father. He turned his head and glanced at the glowing numbers on the alarm clock; 5:15 a.m., forty-five minutes before his radio would alert him that it was time to get up. He flopped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling fan. Now that he was awake, he felt the urge to use the toilet. Casting aside the bedding, he swung his legs off the edge of the mattress and switched off the alarm on the clock, groaning as he struggled onto his feet. After staggering to the bathroom, he relaxed on the porcelain throne with his head in his hands; not at all happy with the way the day was starting out. He flushed with his elbow, then stepped out of his pajama pants before shuffling over to the shower. After washing away his veil of sleepiness, he stood in front of the medicine cabinet and swiped the condensation from the mirror.

“Whoa!” For a second, he saw his dad staring back at him from the other side of the glass and another haunting flash from the past crept into his conscience. He recalled the awful moment when his father stood in front of the riding mower, His left arm raised over the right lever. He shook his head, brushed his teeth and returned to the bedroom to get dressed for the day.

#

Kevin inhaled the freshly brewed mug of coffee in his fist. He sauntered passed the stale donuts to a table at the far corner of the teachers’ lounge. Setting the steaming java down, he strolled over to the vending machine. In exchange for a few coins, he slid the foggy window aside and collected his yogurt and granola breakfast.

Collapsing into the orange, contoured chair, he reached across the tabletop for yesterday’s newspaper. The crossword puzzle was all he was interested in at the moment. He unfolded and refolded the paper, then took a sip of his coffee and read the words embossed on the glossy ceramic of the mug: I’M IN YOU’RE RIGHT HAND.

The mug was a gift from his sister and, although it was true that he continued to have trouble distinguishing his right from his left, he wasn’t sure whether the sentiment was meant to be a joke, an insult, or a cruel reminder of the horrific incident that took place when he was only 14 years old. All the blood, the wet squelching noises, and the smells, oh God, the smells. He tried to shake off the unforgettable details of that day and glanced down at the puzzle in front of him.

One across was seven letters. He scanned the page for the clue — Navigational tool. He penciled in the word, compass. Building off the ‘C’ in compass. One down, 5 letters, Act in accordance with a wish or demand. — comply. From the ‘S’ in compass. Divide by cutting or slicing, 5 letters. — sever. The ‘O’ in comply. 7 letters, a consequence. — outcome. Starting with the M in comply, 7th letter the ‘V’ in sever. Take a wrong turn, 8 letters. — misdrive. But the moment the word entered his mind, he let the pencil topple onto the table and crunched the newspaper like he would an accordion, twisting it like a dirty dish rag. His eyes clouded over, and he stared at nothing.

#

“Back up…back it up.” His father’s monstrous voice boomed as he leaned on one outstretched arm, palm flat against the vibrating hood of the riding mower. The other arm was raised above his head, fist clenched. He kept shouting, “Left, left, left,”

Kevin was terrified that any move he might have made would not satisfy his old man. When his father brought his fist down on the hood, like a judge wielding a gavel, he yanked the right hand control and the tractor shot forward.

The squealing and grinding noises grew in volume as the rotating blades of the mower pulverized toes and shredded sinew from his father's right foot. Agonizing howls brought shrill screams from his mother and sisters as they scrambled to his aid. Before he hit the ground, his chin bounced off the hood of the mower, leaving a cherry red smudge on the olive-green finish. The skunky stink of the burning fan belt filled the air.

The entire episode was traumatic for everyone. Hell, it may not have happened if his father hadn’t raised his children to fear his wrath. Yes, Kevin was the one operating the dangerous weapon that disfigured and disabled his dad for the remainder of his life, but dammit, the old man gave him anxiety and anxiety messed with his clear thinking.

#

Kevin snapped to attention when a fellow teacher greeted him from across the room. The kids would be arriving soon, so he dashed off to the lavatory before the chaos commenced.

In the boy’s bathroom, he flushed the toilet and moseyed to the nearest sink to wash his hands. After turning off the tap, he grasped the slick edges of the basin and peered at his reflection in the mirror. His gaze drifted to the image of the feet in the corner stall, socks with sandals. Kevin smiled a smarmy grin.

“My father used to wear socks with his sandals,” his voice echoed throughout the desolate space. Then he watched in petrified bewilderment while the feet strolled from one stall to the next as if the privacy barriers between each cubical had vanished. The feet halted once they reached the handicap stall at the end of the row and pivoted; their toes pointing outward.

“Hello?” Kevin spoke hesitantly, not really wanting an answer. The buzzing from the overhead fluorescent lights droned in his ears. Suddenly, the stall door swung open, and Kevin saw why the feet moved so freely through the partitions; there was no body attached to them.

His jaw dropped in a silent scream; it was a childhood nightmare come to life. He whipped around, the small of his back arched against the sink. Droplets of water from his fingertips spattered onto the mosaic tile below. His eyes widened with surprise and terror, nothing more than a squeak escaping his gaping maw. Without taking his eyes off the apparitions, he slunk from one porcelain basin to the next, inching his way toward the exit.

Screw this, he thought, and grasped the handle of the door with one wet hand. Despite his slippery clutch, he managed to fling the door open. He lunged forward and almost crashed into the opposing wall in the vestibule. The door gently closed behind him, its effect weirdly out of place in such a panicked situation.

He leaned against the wall. A manifestation of my feelings of guilt. Sure, that’s it. He composed himself before strutting to his classroom, doggedly watching the clock until he could leave for home where he would be a little more at ease.

#

Kevin was still spooked by the earlier bathroom incident when he got home. He fumbled with his keys and unlocked the front door to his house. The wind blew, rustling the leaves in the trees.

“I want your right foot,” the haunting words were barely a whisper.

He stumbled inside, slamming the door shut behind him, rotating on the flexed soles of his shoes and separating the venetian blinds with his fingertips. Nose pressed against the glass; he peeked out the window. If anyone was out there, it was most likely a student playing a prank. He felt silly.

“I want your right foot.” Kevin heard it again, low, slow, and clear. He paused. The voice was coming from the fireplace; it was his father’s voice. The old man was dead; the circumstances totally unrelated to the injuries he endured 20 years ago. So why was he haunting him and why did Kevin feel an overwhelming need to please him? He was 14 again, confused and desperately wanting to do the right thing. He lumbered toward the beckoning voice. “I want your right foot.”

Kevin shivered, feeling a breeze waft from the brick chimney, then removed the machete from the hooks above the fireplace. The sword was a gift and another mixed message he received from his sister. Tears shimmered in his eyes, and he crumpled onto the floor.

“An eye for an eye, daddy.” He raised the weapon over his head. A brief wave of uncertainty washed over him as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirrors that covered the far wall. He brought the weapon downward with such force that a whistle rang out as it ripped through the air.

THWACK! The machete sliced off the first three toes of his left foot, the blade getting embedded in the soft cedarwood floorboards. Blood gushed forth like hot lava, pooling around the blade. Grimacing in anguish, guttural moans soon turned into maniacal laughter as he became aware that he had completely missed his mark.

With great determination, he uprooted the sword and raised it above his head. Blood spattered off the blade, spraying crimson droplets on the white brick and leaving gory streaks across the family photos that lined the stone mantle.

THWACK! He finally did it right.