Reflections of Love

by Autumn Sand

  “I’m not like them.” The sound of my voice shocks both of us. She backs away from the mirror, and I know it will be forever, but I can’t have that. I run toward her, my hand outstretched, and I touch the mirror.

  A shock wave goes through me, and I feel like I am suspended in between time. In my frozen state, I am acutely aware of my surroundings, but unable to move. Her face scrunches up in fear, and she rush toward me with outstretched hands.

  For the first time, I feel her touch. It pulls me out of my trance, and into a spiral of time.

  Lightheadedness takes over, and I feel like I am breathing without air. The room’s reflection in the mirror disappears, and it is just Franny and I in this labyrinth. Her soft fingers clutch around mine, neither of us afraid, but more amazed at the first feeling of touch. Suddenly, a jolt goes through me, like I’m being shot from a cannon ball, and I pull her into me.

  She’s real; everything is real. Her hair is soft, and she smells like hope. She squeezes me tightly, and I hold onto her for dear life because that is what she has become to me; life.

  Just as quickly as our travel into the abyss, we make sudden impact. Air whooshes out of me, and I fade into darkness.

  Chapter 22

  Warm wet kisses pepper down my face, and curly hair that feels like silk tickles my face. Slowly, I open my eyes and stare into the heavenly abyss of cornflower blue irises.

  “I thought you were dead,” she whispers.

  “Never. Not while there is ever a chance to be with you,” I say, as I pull her mouth to mine.

  I don’t know if we are both dreaming and if we are, may we never wake. If we are dead, let us remain this way for eternity. If we are alive, let us always go back to this moment because no other will be able to live up to this.

  When I was ten years old, I had my first kiss with my next-door neighbor, Kelly. That kiss was timid and natural. Since her, I’ve kissed many others until finally, my wife. The kiss I remember the most with Rae, though, was not our first, but the kiss that joined us as man and wife. It wasn’t a movie-type kiss or one for the ages that others will forever write about. It was a kiss that sealed us as husband and wife, in life and in death.

  But this, my first kiss with Franny, is the kiss I’ve always dreamt of. The kiss of knowing you have found your reason for living. The kiss that is your beginning and your end, in one beautifully-wrapped package.

  Unsure of each other at first, it starts out slow, almost shy, like two children afraid of being caught by their parents. But it moves to something that is indescribable. We ravage each other’s mouths, nicking away a piece from each other to savor and hold forever.

  We’re frantic as we explore and tear at each other's clothes. Our mouths are raw from kissing so hard, but yet it makes us hungrier for each other. Mentally we have become one, and it is as if we can read each other's minds as well as body language. No words are spoken but actions, from what I am told, speak louder.

  She frees me from my pants and stares at my length, her eyes wide and hungry for me, the way I am for her. Her dress is pushed above her waist, exposing herself in the most magnificent and natural way. I know I should romance her, start slow. I know there are so many other steps I am skipping, but I don’t know how much time we have together, and I need her like I need air.

  Her eyes plead with me as I sink myself deep inside her warm folds. She gasps loudly, squeezing her eyes shut in what looks like pain, and slowly it dawns on me that she…my dear Franny is—no, was—a virgin. I look at her with panicked eyes. This should have been special; her first time should have been more than what this is. Another white man has taken yet another thing from her.

  Her hand reaches up and touches my lips; she hears my thoughts. I know she does. Her eyes tell me to go on, so I close mine and simply let myself feel her. Energy flows through the two of us, I can feel it in my bones.

  I arch my back and let out a roar; I had to release the energy because it was too much. My eyes snap open, and our eyes lock, sealing us together. I kiss her finger just before I push deeper inside her. Her mouth forms an O, and I still. Fear is gripping me that I might hurt her, but she bucks her hips, urging me on.

  My arms begin to shake as I try to slow my pace. I want to make it as romantic as I can, but my willpower only knows so many limits. As if I am suddenly possessed, I piston my body in and out of her, and she meets me, thrust for thrust.

  Her long legs wrap around my waist, and I lose the last bit of control I had. It feels like an out-of-body experience as I jackhammer into her; something is pushing me forward and faster.

  The sky above begins to crack with lightning. The closer I get to the edge, the closer the lightning strikes. It is the energy pushing me forward. With each thrust, a burst of lightning hits, baptizing us and this union.

  Her back arches, as does mine, and she opens her mouth to scream in pleasure, but no sound is heard. I scream as well and, again, no sound is to be heard. The lightning replaces what should be our screams of desire.

  I’m close, so close, but I don’t want this to end. Not now. Please, not now, because I may not have another with her. I try to slow what is the inevitable, but it’s like trying to capture perfection and place it in a bottle, to never be opened. It’s just not done, and I explode. My body convulses as I release the last of myself inside of her.

  Collapsing on top of her, I am too spent to move. She doesn’t try to push me off, but instead strokes my back. I feel her heartbeat through our conjoined connection.

  We lay like this, in what feels like a space in between time. Before coherent thoughts can go through my head, I hear Agatha’s voice calling for me from afar. My eyes pop open, and I pull Franny against me. I can’t explain how I know it, but I’m about to be pulled back into my time.

  No, not yet. Please not yet.

  Franny looks at me in in desperation; she feels it too. Can she hear the voices? Voices from our present times, calling us individually to return to them?

  I scream out to leave us be, but my voice carries no sound. We both hold each other tightly, but a force beyond our control snatches us apart and throws us, hurtling through a labyrinth. I try to reach out for her and she, the same, but only our fingertips are able to touch before the lightning bolt hits us and separates us again.

  I scream out her name in the soundless time loop, as I plunge back into my present realm. My body slams onto my bed, and I see my door opening before I pass out.

  Chapter 23

  I’ve finished locking up the house and anxiously walk—no, glide—up the stairs for my regular routine with Franny. Since that night, when Franny and I met in the most clandestine of meetings, we have spoken every night for months.

  In the beginning, we were both unsure if the union was just a dream, or if it truly did happen. Neither of us knew how to recreate the same event, or if it was this just another added layer of the mirror.

  The only real thing for me is my burgeoning love for Franny. That is the only real, attainable thing; everything else is in its shadow. I’ve yet to mention my meeting Franny with my closest loved ones. Not from fear that they won’t believe me; no, it is for a much more selfish reason. I need to keep this …this thing with Franny just between us. Allowing others to enter into its fragile space feels as if it would dirty the purest thing that I have in my life. Their questions and or accusations would spread like a cancer, and stain what I know is the most righteous thing in my life.

  I glance at the digital clock next to my bed to see if there is time for a quick shower before our conversation, but unfortunately, there is none. I sit on the bed in front of the mirror and wait, as I always do around this time. You would think something like smoke would appear in the mirror, and then Franny would enter, with her beautiful smile and wide eyes. Eyes that have seen more cruelty in her life than anyone has the right to. Instead, her entrance is as if she were always there. Her beauty, captured in the frame of the mirror, like one of Henri LaSalle’s paintings.

>   My heart pounds in my chest as I delight in knowing I will lay eyes on her in just a moment. Feeling like a child on Christmas Eve, surrounded by presents all laid out under a tree just for me, I swing my legs back and forth, and inhale. My breath hitches when I see her appear; her exquisiteness has a way of taking my breath away, each and every time.

  My eyes roam over her features as I slowly walk toward the mirror with an outstretched hand. I place my hand on the cold glass, wishing it was her warm touch instead. Both of our fingers spread open, hoping that tonight will be the night the mirror once again works its magic and lets us be together again. Disappointment flickers across our face momentarily, as we both realize the mirror is not going to gift us a second chance. But disappointment quickly disappears and is replaced with elation of seeing each other again.

  There is so much I want to ask her. Inquiring questions about her day, her life, just everything that I can possibly know. But she prefers to hear about my day instead, often saying she lives through me, and for me. My days are not fascinating enough to hold an interest, but I find myself recounting the hours with such bravado that it would make any master storyteller envious. Franny is the perfect listener, laughing at the right times, showing shock without cue, and always clapping in delight. I would sit and do this all day with her if I could. But I know what a danger it is already for her, as she sneaks into LaSalle’s room each night.

  She grabs a chair and places it in front of the mirror, taking a seat and wrapping her shawl protectively around her. Her face is a bit plumper and her eyes are sparkling. She smiles and waits for me to begin. I hesitate because I am in complete awe of her; all thoughts leave my head and I find myself breathless staring at her.

  “Evan.” She whispers my name, and it sounds magical. No one could ever call my name and illicit such a fierce passion the way she can.

  Can I take a picture of this moment and hold it in my heart, for when I feel I need her close to me? Or maybe bottle it, to be broken open only in case of emergency.

  “Sorry, I just wanted to take you in,” I explain honestly.

  “Take me in?” Her brow scrunches in confusion.

  I smile and shake my head. “Figure of speech, ba-” I stop myself from calling her baby. For some reason, using a term of endearment that I used with Rae many times before doesn’t seem right. That’s when it dawns on me to give her a special name. “What do you like?” I ask, giddy.

  She blushes and smiles. “You know what I like.”

  “I know, but I want to give you a nickname; something only you and I will know about. Something special and unique.” I omit saying “like this relationship.”

  “I like what you want to give.” She clasps her hand in front of her.

  “You can give me a nickname as well.”

  She smiles. “But I like yo’ name. Don’t know any other Evan’s.”

  “And I don’t know any other Franny’s. But I want something to call you.”

  “I be happy with whatever. You know that.”

  I nod my agreement. “I’ll think on it and get back to you.”

  She nods as well. “Did you write any stories today?”

  She’s taken a liking to my stories, and I’ve read to her a few times from some of my books. “Not much,” I say, as I take a seat on the bed again.

  “Ev’rything a’right?” Her eyes worry and her voice notes concern.

  “Of course, everything is fine. I just didn’t feel like it today, but I will definitely do some tomorrow.” I leave out the fact that I was busy, yet again, trying to place the missing pieces of her puzzle together. How and why did she disappear? What happened to Henri? These questions have been plaguing me, and I can’t stop until I get to the bottom of it.

  Her face relaxes with my response. Lately, I’ve found myself trying to omit anything that would worry her. I want her life full of happiness, and if it takes me lying to make it happen, then I will gladly do so.

  “You look tired.” She stares at me a moment longer, as if she is reading my mind.

  “I’m not,” I lie. “How much time we have today?” I switch the subject quickly.

  “Not much. Masta LaSalle be back soon, I think.” Her head turns toward the door, and then back to me.

  Time never seems to be on our side. I’m a selfish man and want more, but I can’t ask her to put herself in any more danger than she already is. My eyes rake over her, inch by inch, committing everything to memory as I always do every night. It’s a fear of the next day. As anxious as I am for our nights, I am more anxious for the next day, for fear that she may not appear. And then what? Something that has quickly etched its way into my daily routine would send me adrift, forever searching and longing.

  “I love you,” I blurt out, then inwardly cringing at my outburst. Not exactly how I imagined telling her. I was hoping it would be with me holding her in my arms once again, but the realization of this may never happen hits me, and I need her to hear the words.

  “You do?” Her eyes widen in shock.

  “I do. I really, really do. I love you, Franny.” For a writer, I am suddenly tongue-tied and unable to speak the beautifully-written words I’m known for. If this were a book, I would have written a paragraph explaining my love to her, and how I feel. No, a paragraph wouldn’t do it justice; perhaps a sonnet or soliloquy of Shakespearean nature, that would be told through the ages. But instead, my gift for weaving words into sculptures leave me, and I am left with the simplest of words.

  I love you.

  With those three words, I feel like I have cheated her out of what should have been worded better. Thought out more. Not blurted out in haste because time is an enemy. Should I explain the joy she brings to me? Should I tell her how I live and breathe only for her? I give myself mental kicks in the butt and wonder if I can get a do-over. There should be flowers, music… something more.

  “I love you too.”

  With those four words, all my worries and doubts are pushed away. With her declaration, we have both committed to each other, and I make a silent oath to her that I will find a way to be with her again. Whether it is in life or in death.

  Chapter 24

  I stand in my bedroom’s door archway as I watch Marcus’s crew knock down the wall. Dust particles fly through the room, giving them an illusion of being in a cloud. Marcus sips his coffee from a travel mug, as if this is a regular day in the office, while I stand in trepidation of what they may find. A few months ago, when the construction was nearly completed, Marcus brought by the machine that could essentially x-ray the wall, so we could determine if there was anything behind it.

  “I think we got something here!” one of the men yells, and coughs.

  Marcus hands me the travel mug and rushes over with his hard hat in place. He first peeks his head through the opening, and then steps through, yelling for a flashlight. My heart kicks repeatedly in my chest. Is this it? Franny’s remains?

  The room is silent as we wait for Marcus to call out another instruction. After the longest seconds of my life, Marcus peeks his head back through the opening.

  “Evan, I think you should be the first to see.” His eyes are wide with something that I can’t read.

  My fingers tighten around the travel mug, and it begins to shake. All eyes are on me, waiting for me to walk the path that will likely change my life. Forever.

  Walking past my table, I place the mug on top and wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. Lifting my hands, I watch them shake with a fear that I can’t control. This …all of this has suddenly become very, very real to me, and I can no longer pretend that the outcome is in my control. I step through the hole with the help of Marcus, his flashlight guiding the way. He flashes the light around the top of the ceiling, and I see how small the space truly is. Finally, his light settles on what I know I have been brought in here for.

  The remains of a person long deceased. Nausea hits me; feeling dizzy, I reach out to steady myself, my hands landing on a painting.

&
nbsp; “Marcus, flash the light over here,” I demand.

  He does as I ask, and there it is; the missing painting of “The Sins of the Flesh.” I was wrong, it isn’t a painting of Franny; it’s Enid being held by Henri. My heart kicks back to life again, and I turn back to the body lying on the fainting couch. With Marcus’ light guiding the way, I walk toward the mummified remains of Henri LaSalle.

  “It’s not her,” I say under my breath.

  “It’s not who?” Marcus asks from next to me.

  “This is Henri LaSalle,” I say, as I turn to him. “He was buried in this house all along.”

  His eyes widen. “The famous painter?”

  I nod as I turn back to look at Henri. His mouth is open, in what appears to be a scream of death, his hand over his heart, while the other lay by his side. His smoking jacket is decayed, and looks like it will turn to dust if you touch it. His gray pants are faded from age, with stains that look like blood. The couch is stained as well, with what I can best figure to be Henri’s blood. Enid killed him and had this room built, encasing his body, perhaps? Nothing is making sense.

  “We have to call the authorities,” Marcus says.

  I want to ask him to give me time to think everything over, but I can’t come up with a reasonable explanation to give, so I simply nod my approval and take out my phone to record our findings.

  Marcus leaves the flashlight with me, as he steps out to make the phone call to the police. I continue to explore the room, and squint my eyes when I see something tucked in between the cushion of the couch. Looking over my shoulder to make sure no one is watching, I bend down and grab it. It’s one of Henri’s journals! I tuck it into my pants and place my sweater over it.

  Trying as hard as I can not to disturb the remains, I sweep my hands under the cushions to see if there is anything else hidden, but my hands come up empty. I flash the light around the small space, for any other clues but, nothing other than the painting, the body, and now, the journal. A piece of fabric is clasped in his hand. I reach for it and pull, the fabric tearing from years of deterioration. It looks like a ribbon, and then I realize it to be Franny’s; the ribbon she ties in her hair. What is he doing with it? My mind clutters with more questions, but no answers.