Peeping Tom
Page 4
*****
“Thom-as,” the sound, drawn out in exaggerated syllables, caressed his ears. His eyelids snapped open and blinked out of sequence with one another as he struggled to see without his glasses. “Thom-as...” the sensual, female voice called again, “Time to get up.”
“Who, who's there?” he slurred, squinting and trying to locate the source of the sound.
“You like to watch, don't you?”
“What?” Thomas asked, suddenly aware that he couldn't move anything other than his hands, feet and head. The sounds of something heavy sliding across the linoleum flooring sent vibrations up through his legs and fueled his mounting dread. He craned his neck and strained to see.
“Let me help you with that,” the lyrical voice offered, and Thomas' vision became as clear as fine crystal. He struggled to understand what was happening as he stared at the large, upright mirror before him.
The realization hit, and Thomas began to beg, “I didn't do anything. I'm sorry this happened to you, but it wasn't me. You know that. Why are you doing this to me? I didn't do anything!” he pleaded.
“That's right,” the deceptively gentle voice told him, “You didn't do anything. You didn't call anyone. You didn't try to help or stop it. But you if you had, I might still be alive. You even withheld information from the police that could have identified a serial killer whose career had lasted decades,” the voice paused, “You're exactly right, Tom, or would you prefer, Peeping Tom? You didn't do anything, anything at all...”
“I was going to, I swear. I just called the detective,” Thomas contested.
“Ah, but that was just another act of self-preservation, wasn't it? You weren't sorry about what happened, only that it might lead back to you and your little pastime. Face it, Tommy-Boy, you stood by and watched, yet did nothing, so you might as well have held the belt.”
Before he could offer an argument, a red-hot stinging stretched across his face, and when the tears in his eyes cleared, he could see the angry, pink stripe glowing in his reflected image. Thomas cried and moaned as the blows turned from slaps to blunt strikes. After an incalculable barrage of impacts, a lull in the attack allowed him to look at the mirror that now displayed his reddened skin and bleeding face. His right eye was swollen shut, and there was large gash beneath it.
Thomas' head jerked again, and he could feel a thin band of tension uniformly increasing around his neck. As his trachea was slowly squeezed shut, he heard the soft voice again, “So, you like to watch? Well... watch this.”
The pressure around his neck spiked, and as he stared into the mirror, a pink film slid down over his vision. In the reflection, blood began streaming out of his functional left eye, and he could feel the pressure building within the capillaries of his lungs. Just before the tiny bundles of vascular pathways began to rupture, he stole one last glance at the looking glass, where a depression had formed around his neck, though no means of ligature was visible. Thomas watched his tongue protrude from his contorted, rapidly bluing face. Time ceased to have meaning, and he felt as if he were floating... then the blackness came and took everything away.
*****
Detective Hornby raced to the apartment building where several uniformed officers were on the scene and awaiting his arrival. He had been receiving updates through the radio while trying to call Thomas' phone, until one of the officers answered to inform him that Thomas was not there. Upon arriving, Hornby made his way straight to 3-A. He burst in and strode directly into the kitchen where a chair sat just a few feet from a large, oval mirror on a swiveling stand. Scraps of thick, gray tape clung to the chair in very familiar patterns.
“Hey, isn't that the mirror from the bedroom?” one of the patrolmen asked from behind him.
“I'm not sure,” Hornby replied, obviously confused.
“And didn't forensics already process that chair in as evidence?” the younger man persisted.
Hornby stared at the tiny table in the corner of the kitchen, then turned to look at the patrolman, whose eyes were almost as wide as his own, “Yeah, they did...”
The End
“I write because I'm terribly unhappy if I don't...” - W.P.
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