A Courtroom of Ashes

by C. S. Wilde

That’s the look stamped on my reflection.

  She flinches, glancing back and forth.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Leave!” she barks, a drip of saliva slipping between her bared teeth.

  Against my better judgment, I approach the mirror. I want to reach into the other side and assure her everything will be fine, but before I touch the surface, she lets out a high-pitched scream that reverberates through my room, making me jump back.

  A bony hand with a ruby ring on its index finger appears out of the darkness. It flies to Mirror-me’s neck and squeezes hard. Mirror-me breathes like a trapped deer, her eyes filling with horror. The hand raises her higher until her feet dangle in the dark.

  I bang my hands against the surface. “Let her go!”

  She looks down at me, and I’m not sure whether she’s hissing or telling me to shush.

  The hand squeezes her neck harder, tightening around her windpipe with its long, thin fingers. Mirror-me scratches the hand but it’s useless; it doesn’t let go.

  A second hand materializes in the darkness. The first hand loosens, allowing Mirror-me to suck in a breath, and for a second I think everything will be okay. Then the first hand grasps my reflection’s wrists behind her back, and although she tries, she can’t break free. The second hand pulls a knife out of the silky blackness, the blade shining as it caresses Mirror-me’s neck. Then the blade opens a deep, red grin across her throat and the grin drools blood.

  I wake up screaming. I’m in my room and Mirror-me follows my every move, like a reflection should. It was a nightmare, that’s all. I don’t know why I’m crying.

  ***

  The one thing I could always count on after a horrible dream was my father’s smile. No matter what happened, it had a way of whispering to me, “Everything’s going to be all right.” That’s the smile I need after last night.

  Dad is a social worker down by Little Brazil and Eighth, three blocks from my office, so lunch meetings are quite common.

  “Didn’t know you fancy lawyers ate in McDonalds,” he says.

  I smile as I play with the straw in my coke. “I’m a people person, Dad.”

  He’s almost bald now, a tad worn out, but he still carries blunt kindness and naïveté in his eyes. A bit of his natural sparkle is missing, though. Something’s wrong.

  “What’s up?”

  He hesitates. “Remember Barbara Townsend? You two girls were like peanut butter and jelly.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ve been having some weird dreams about her.”

  Or maybe the dreams weren’t about Barbie at all. Maybe my subconscious was trying to send me a weird message. I never liked the subconscious. It’s full of shit no one understands.

  Dad leans forward across the table. “What kind of dreams?”

  I shrug. “She was my reflection in the mirror, I guess…bunch of nonsense.”

  Dad grabs my hand with a firm grip. “Dreams happen for a reason, sweetheart. There are messages in them.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Messages from my mind, you mean.”

  Dad focuses on the counter instead of replying, but his silence is a reply in itself.

  Rolling my eyes, I remind him “I don’t believe in the supernatural like you do, Dad.”

  “Santana, Barbara was trying to say good-bye.”

  “What? As in after death?” I laugh out loud. “She’d have to be dead for that, wouldn’t she?”

  His eyes glisten.

  “Dad?”

  “Barbara went missing a week ago.”

  My lungs shrink so quickly that I can’t breathe. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You had so much on your plate, you always do. I didn’t want to make things worse.” He sighs. “I heard it from her mother. They found her body in a ditch yesterday.”

  Jerking away from him, I knock my coke onto the floor and splatter black liquid all over the marbled squares. Oh God, this doesn’t make any sense. I’m shaking all over, eyes stinging. If I were standing, I’d be butt on the ground by now. “You’re wrong, it can’t be.”

  “I’m so sorry, Santy. Barbie was like family to me too. She really stood by you after your mother…” His voice quavers.

  There was a reason behind the dreams. No, this is insane, it’s all a coincidence.

  I swallow the knot in my throat and close my eyes. If I open them I’m afraid a sea of tears will flow out and drown everyone in this place. Trapping the pain somewhere deep inside me, I begin to focus.

  “Who did it? What have they found?”

  “Apparently she fought back in a robbery.”

  “Does her family have representation? I’ll do it for free. It’s easy to nail these guys, they’re usually crackheads.”

  “Drop it, sweetheart. You’re personally involved.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Santy, you were her best friend. The fact you girls hadn’t spoken in a while, that both of you never said what needed to be said…You’ll never be able to remain impartial.”

  I lean in, peering into my dad’s eyes. “I. Don’t. Care.”

  Dad sighs. “Look, they’ve got representation, a Richard something.”

  “Richard Anderson?”

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  Dad’s right. I can’t stand in a court of law and look Barbie’s murderer in the eye. Richard Anderson would do everything I would, except shooting the murderer in front of a courtroom full of people. Barbie’s family is better off with him. I’m better off with him.

  I exhale a weary breath. “Fine.”

  Dad pats me on the shoulder. “I’m so sorry, dear.”

  Not as sorry as I am.

  Dad closes his eyes to confine the tears, but I can’t hold mine. I was too proud, too stupid…For the first time in a very long time, I allow myself to cry.

  3

  The funeral home is filled with white lilies, Barbie’s favorite. Not that it matters now. It’s not like she can appreciate them.

  There are so many people here, all clad in black except for one. Barbie is wearing a long-sleeved blue dress. Her once shiny blonde hair has faded to a lifeless gray, falling down in curls over her chest and the white padding of the coffin.

  Her throat wasn’t slashed like in my nightmare. Bullets took Barbie away; one scraped her heart and two shredded her lungs. She drowned in her own blood. The bullet holes must still be there, dry and unhealed, hidden underneath her dress. The image of Barbie bursts in my mind, eyes gaping as a pool of blood soaks her wet. Bitterness burns the walls of my throat as it rises, stopping at the top, ready to come out.

  Pull yourself together, Santana. You’re not the one in the coffin.

  I suck in a deep breath and the urge to vomit retreats. Slightly.

  Look at her. Barbie seems to be sleeping; red lips, pink cheeks—too pink…but it’s makeup, nothing more. I brush the tips of my fingers against her skin and powder sticks to my fingertips. This gives me an irrational idea that Barbie will always be a part of me. Am I losing my mind?

  Her stiff expression doesn’t belong to someone who’s at peace, it belongs to someone who died in pain and alone.

  I wasn’t there for her.

  Tears threaten to come out, but I hold them.

  “I’m so sorry, Barbie,” I croak, those held-up tears slipping into my voice.

  What hurts the most is that her corpse is just a shell; it’s not her. My words are as good as the sound of a tree falling in an empty forest.

  Her mother’s cries ring from a distance, and I try to compose myself as much as I can, stay strong. It’s what I do best, but this time, it breaks me apart.

  The rest of the ceremony flashes by as if I’m watching it from a great distance. When the coffin lowers into the ground, a knot wraps around my heart like a python.

  Gone baby, gone.

  ***

  One night goes by with no sign of Mirror-me.

  I know it was all a coincidence. There is no such thing as an afterlife, o
r ghosts, but still I wait in front of the mirror. I can’t explain why, but I’m hoping something will happen, something that will prove that Barbie is okay, even after her death. If she could hear me…yeah, I know how crazy that sounds.

  The obvious explanation is that the dreams were a figment of my imagination. There’s no such thing as Heaven or Hell, no life after death. The logic part of my brain knows that, but this doesn’t change the fact that I need to tell Barbie—or my subconscious—how sorry I am for throwing our friendship away, all because of a guy who never meant as much to me as she did.

  But where is Barbie?

  I sit on the bed and wave to the mirror. My reflection counters with the same move.

  “Please?” Desperation hides in the edges of my voice.

  Nothing happens.

  Then darkness creeps from the edges, turning the mirror into a pitch-black canvas.

  Am I dreaming or is this real? Either way, I can’t move. My heart might have stopped, breath caught up mid-throat, but against all instincts, I stand and take a few steps forward. Dad always said I suffer from inconvenient curiosity syndrome, and yeah, he made that up, but that doesn’t make him wrong. Mix that with adrenaline and voila: I’m walking toward the mirror when the smart thing to do is flee in the opposite direction.

  I glance quickly behind to make sure my room is still there. The rational part of my brain tells me I’m going crazy, but the part of me that believes in things like Santa or the Easter bunny tells me that I’ll be seeing Barbie soon.

  A bluish smoke brushes the darkness, rising from the bottom of the mirror. It becomes a dim glow that takes on a vaguely human form—arms, legs, a torso, and a head. Two matching orbs appear on its face, observing everything on my side of the mirror.

  My jaw tenses, muscles clench. Maybe this isn’t a dream, and maybe this isn’t real either. Maybe I’m going mad.

  “What is this place?” the blur asks in a genderless monotone, less a voice than a drum in the back of my ears.

  An image bursts into my mind: Barbie in a ditch, her mouth forever agape, vomiting a mass of worms that move at their own pace. Her skin is pearl white with random purple splotches, and her milky-blue eyes stare back at me.

  How could I have abandoned her?

  “Barbie I’m so sorry, please!” This all at once. My legs shiver and I think they’ll fail. “You need to know I’m so fucking sorry!”

  “I’m not this Barbie you speak of,” the smoke says, now with a man’s voice.

  What the fuck? If not Barbie, then who?

  The devil. I knew this day was coming.

  That’s stupid. This is my room, and if I’m going crazy, this is all in my head. The least I can do is to stand my ground. Still, my attention goes to the door.

  No, I won’t run. The devil is not on the other side, because he doesn’t exist.

  The man’s features are foggy, but he grows taller and stronger, no longer a frail blur. I lift my chin to look him in the eyes. Whatever this is, madness, dream, or reality, I’m facing it. But all the man does is scan my room.

  “Are you alive?” he asks.

  “A-as far as I know.” A memory of fear pushes through my mind, but when I think of Barbie, I ignore it. She’s all that matters.

  An ambulance passes outside, its wail fading as fast as it came. Cars honk, motors purr, and someone down the street swears. The blur runs to the right edge of the mirror, following the sounds as if they’re some kind of magic.

  “What’s that?” it urges. “Where are you?”

  I follow the blur, curiosity overcoming fear. “I’m in my room.”

  His eyes roll up in their orbits. “I meant which city.”

  “New York.”

  “I knew it! I’m from New York too!” He stands up, hands slapped together in excitement.

  His friendly behavior strikes me as odd. Not what I’d expect from a ghost, but definitely what I’d expect from a senseless dream.

  “Nice to meet a fellow New Yorker,” he says.

  Okay, let’s roll with it. “I’m not from New York, I live in New York.”

  The spheres analyze me from head to toe. “Where are you from?”

  “Jersey.”

  The dash in the bottom of his face curves up. “Sorry to hear that.”

  At least he seems to have a sense of humor. If circumstances were different—like if he weren’t a ghost, or an invention of my imagination—I might even chuckle. But if he is a ghost, then he must have seen Barbie, and if he is a part of my imagination, then maybe he is Barbie and Barbie is me and this is getting weird.

  I’ll follow option one for now.

  “Maybe you can help me,” I say.

  “How?”

  “Are you dead?”

  “As far as I know.” He smiles. “You seem awfully unfazed about it.”

  He’s right. I was focusing so much on Barbie…If this is real, then I’m talking to a ghost. A real ghost. A cold blow swims through my body, making me shiver. The door seems incredibly appealing now.

  Barbie comes first.

  “You don’t need to be scared,” he says. “I won’t hurt you.”

  I know this is crazy, but I believe him. There’s something about this blur, something good and reassuring. Reality, dream, or madness? It’s starting to feel like the latter.

  He puts both hands over his waist. “So, how can I help you?”

  “I-I think I…I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

  “C’mon, you can do it,” he prods.

  “Fine.” Taking a deep breath I say, “I think my friend is on your side of the mirror.”

  “You mean she’s dead?”

  I nod. “She’s blonde and short. Her name is Barbie. Could you help me find her?”

  “Sure, but it’s going to cost you.” He taps his smoky fingers over his chin. “What currency should we use? If I have a say in it, I’d choose time. I’d give anything for more time.”

  I’m speechless and I’m never, ever, speechless. Everyone wishes for more time, but a dead person probably wishes harder than anyone else. I scratch the back of my neck, eyes on the ground.

  “I didn’t mean it seriously,” he assures, but I don’t believe him. He clears his throat. “How did you get this mirror wall, miss?”

  “Not from a gypsy, if that’s what you’re thinking. It came from a very classy store, cost me a fortune.”

  I wonder if they’d give me a refund for buying a haunted mirror wall.

  “Ahh, Ms. Successful-little-thing bought a huge, probably overpriced mirror, in which she can contact the dead.” He studies me more intently. “Let me guess, Wall Street broker?”

  How annoying is this guy?

  “Sir, perhaps you don’t understand the urgency of my situation. I don’t have time for a haunted mirror. I don’t want a haunted mirror, but I can’t get rid of it until I find my friend Barbie.” I press the bridge of my nose. “Assuming I’m not going mad, that is.”

  He lifts his index finger. “First, I never said this was a haunted mirror.” He lifts his middle finger. “Second, you didn’t answer my question.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m a lawyer.”

  He sweeps his baby-blue hand in the air. “Wall street brokers, lawyers, all the same.”

  I’m not going to be scrutinized by a stupid ghost. “And what kind of work did you do, Mr. High-and-Mighty? Wait, let me guess: stand-up comedian.”

  “Politics,” he blurts through mostly closed lips, like a child admitting a wrongdoing.

  I laugh out loud. This is priceless. “Mr. Ghost, you should’ve shut up when you had the chance.”

  “Perhaps.” He knocks at his side of the mirror. “I think this is a window between our worlds.”

  How can a smoky blur make a knocking sound?

  His features become clear in the blink of an eye, as if knocking worked some sort of spell on him. A man in a suit stares back at me, his skin a faint baby blue, his suit gray blue, and his shoes navy blue.
He’s got gentle eyes, a squared chin, and slightly waved hair that reaches his shoulders. The level of detail is amazing. I can even spot some of the pores on his crooked yet classy nose, which fits perfectly with the rest of his face.

  Although he’s all blue, I know that his hair is blond, and I recognize these eyes that stare back at me. I’ve seen them on TV.

  “You’re Honest John.”

  “I’m sorry, have we met?”

  I shake my head, hands clutched on my chest. A gut-punching anguish swirls inside me. It all makes sense now. Everyone was talking about Honest John a few days ago and now he shows up in my mirror. It’s so blatantly clear this is all in my head. Barbie never tried to contact me. It pisses me off that my subconscious decided to mess with me like that.

  John looks at me, head tilted to the side. “Are you all right?”

  I nod. “You died when I was a child.”

  His lips close into a line. “If you don’t mind me asking, how old were you when it happened?”

  “Ten,” I croak.

  “How old are you now?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Almost twenty years?” He puts his hand over his lips, a lost look in his eyes.

  “Barbie is dead, and that’s it,” I mutter, a desperate wish to cry surging up inside. “I’ll never get the chance to talk to her again.”

  John’s hands go under his chin as his blue eyes peer at me. “You should know better. You seem like a fairly smart person.”

  “You’re not real,” I insist.

  “I’m real, I’m ali—” He hangs his head, his voice a gasp. “I exist.”

  I approach the mirror and when I speak I use a gentle tone. “Listen, I don’t like this either. I was hoping you were a real ghost, because if you were, that would mean the real Barbie tried to contact me. But there’s no such thing as an afterlife, and no closure for me. I’m probably dreaming, and when I wake up, you’ll be gone.”

  Just like Barbie.

  “I’ll be gone?” He lets out the most dashing smile I’ve ever seen. TV has not been fair to him. “No pun intended?”

  It takes me longer than I’d like to free myself from his magnetism. John is remarkable in all the right places, a Nordic god in a suit.

  Clearing my throat, I say, “I admire your positive attitude, Mr. Braver, but I recently found out an old friend passed away. I can’t handle the mess my head is putting me through.”