It has been said that in the final moment of a person’s existence, their whole life flashes before their eyes. I cannot say with any certainty whether this is true because, firstly, I have no life, or at least, no life of my own. What existence I have is shared and fleeting and relies solely on the existence of others. Secondly, there is no such thing as a final moment, because each moment in and of itself is both final and independent. It is for this reason that I cannot fully fathom the notion of directing one’s own fate. Yet, I do believe in it, however begrudgingly, and know that if it were ever afforded to me, I would treasure it. Such privilege is all too often wasted on those who are incapable of believing, even as they hold it in their own hands. My fate forever remains out of hands I do not possess. And now, the only hand I see is balled into a fist and poised for my destruction. Don’t think that I am bitter for my helplessness. I am what I am, and I accept that. After all, one cannot lose what was never had. Therefore, with neither a final moment nor a life with which to live it, I shall do as I have always done and reflect.

It was on a peculiar day, not five years ago, that the new owners of my residence placed me into a room I’d never before seen, and at first I was repulsed at how much time these people spent looking at me. They mindlessly splashed me with sink water leaving the droplets to dry until they felt compelled to clean them off. Many times I found myself peering through the mist, unable to discern any more than shapes and orbs of color and light until the towel which had been wrapped around naked flesh was used to smudge away the fog. And what noises that escape the human form! I consider myself fortunate to reflect light and not sound.

However, even in that undesirable environment, I found most pleasing a new view through a small window giving me sight to what I’d only before heard referenced to as “the lake”. The water moved back and forth in soft crescendos, disturbed only by the impact of rain on its surface. When the sun returned, the neighbor children would go jumping into the water from the pier for some time, then sit back with their fishing poles lined and launched. It was sunny this way nearly every day when the new couple arrived. I do not know where they came from, but I could only surmise after hearing and seeing so many conversations that they too were pleased with the change of scenery, however minor it may have been.

The man was handsome, a bit rough around the edges, and certainly not as fit as others I’d seen. He smiled much more frequently, however, and at times it seemed to be his most attractive feature. The woman who kissed him was short and spent far less time than many other women fixing their hair and concealing their blemishes. She seemed to realize what was already beautiful about her and needed nothing—nor felt a need—to make anyone else more aware of it.

What I found most peculiar was the bond between them, far different from the aching hearts of the meek and the mild, the backbiting of the envious, and the stoic silence of hopeless romantics. It was almost as if they felt something genuine for each other, a thing which I could not give a name, yet it was something visible in their eyes when they said to each other, “I love you.” The man and woman said this often, always simply and without reservation. I had, in the first weeks, already decided that even if they believed they meant it, such feelings would not last, and such beliefs would follow suit.

She seemed to realize what was already beautiful about her and needed nothing—nor felt a need—to make anyone else more aware of it.

Whether due to an affliction of supra-naiveté or simply a lack of matrimonial awareness, as the summer turned to autumn and thusly to winter, their happiness and love did not appear to diminish. It was a struggle even for me, with all my knowledge and observation of the human species, to remain pragmatic. Idealistic attitudes of human nature never ended well, as the very first inhabitants of my house learned all too clearly when they were robbed by some soldiers who’d surrendered and sought a night’s shelter from their former enemies. By all accounts, it was nothing short of a miracle that no one had been murdered in their beds. At any rate, the cycle of trust and deception always ended in this way: those who trusted would be deceived, and those who deceived would never trust, but all would meet their end with bitter wisdom.

In the dawn of their first spring, a layer of morning clouds cast a haze over the lake, and the woman entered the bathroom, quickly locking the door behind her. She sat in every ordinary way on the porcelain seat, fumbling with some box and its contents. I paid the affair little mind until she stood before me. She looked at herself in me, and it was then that my attention was caught. It was as if she was facing a giant; that reflected before her was not herself but something greater, as if she observed the path of uncertain adventure. Yet, it was this fact of uncertainty that brought the smile to her face. The man began knocking at the door, and after taking a deep breath she allowed him entrance. Together they smiled, then laughed. Together they wept. This was something I’d never before witnessed. Of course, I’d seen countless men and women weep, but this was something else. This was happiness, and I pondered with perplexity such joy that would release a wealth of tears.

Soon, the woman’s figure changed, her belly and her breasts swelling quickly. Unlike others who grow bigger, this seemed to please her, and she’d turn to one side, then the other, feeling and pressing at her sides, then rubbing her palm tenderly across her skin. On occasion, in quiet moments, the man would do the same to her, his arms wrapping around from behind. The summer and the light returned until it cooled and the leaves began to turn. Breezes whispered to each other just as did the man and the woman, and despite the winter claiming the lake, the cold found no shelter here.

Then, there were three of them. The baby girl chattered and cooed at herself in me, her mother holding her securely against her bossom. The man was there as well, his smile evolved into an expression of awed affection. This child was their creation, and they were humbled and in love. Few moments followed in which the girl was not the center of attention. Like two planets, they orbited their star, and they called her Felicity.

Those who trusted would be deceived, and those who deceived would never trust, but all would meet their end with bitter wisdom.

The three lived this way for a long time. The woman even grew again as with their daughter, and she and the man wept together as before. Yet, there was no addition to the family. One autumn morning before dawn, the light switched on. The woman was alone as she struggled into the bathroom. Her night gown was coated red, and her hands the same leaving smeared prints on the floor as she crawled towards the tub in agony. Her skin was pale, sweating, and crying, her teeth gritted until I was certain they’d crack. With a guttural sigh, her strength gave out, and she lay silently on the floor. The woman bled until she stopped.

I do not like some reflections. I do not like most, if I am to be honest. The man walking into the bathroom, tired and dirty from a long night’s work, those suspended seconds of confusion, the bolt of realization piercing him that followed and the scream he could not give voice to; I would have rather not existed at all than to reflect that light. Perhaps, in consideration of such things, fate is in no one’s hands at all. Perhaps, such a notion is simply a myth, a fairy tale created to make sense of the nonsensical, no different than any other horrible bedtime story.

To say that the woman lived is subjective, and you may take that as you will. The eyes that once looked confidently upon a great adventure now stared blankly at a wall. It was only with Felicity that such an expression was replaced with a smile. However, there was no question that the new reflection was void of something that the old possessed. The man recognized this, too, though he remained silent, seeing it then looking away in denial of both, as if to not acknowledge something is to negate its existence altogether. However, that which is buried alive will seek vengeance when unearthed, and it will shriek and howl all the while in between.

Despite her role in my imminent shattering, the woman I see now is the same woman I saw years before. No form of her in the present is devoid of her in the past, and though it may seem her heavy eyes and splintering tears were born of sorrow for what might have been, they were instead for the inexorable change of what used to be. She’d repeated countless times while looking at herself in me, “You cannot lose what you never had… You cannot lose what you never had…” It may have been that she was simply trying to convince herself of such a thing, to remind herself of what still mattered. However, when one has smiled but can no longer, when a person who has expressed love becomes incapable of expression, when someone who—worse than a lack of feeling—feels the heaviness of nothing, then there is no matter. There is only the reflection, and the reflection must die.


OTHER SHORT STORIES
BY STEPHEN DANIEL RUIZ

Enter: OBLIVION

Studies In gray.

THE SALESMAN

It was on a crystal-clear morning, sunny and warm with only the hint of an early chill, that Bruce was awakened. His siblings had apparently been up for a while and were a little ways off, nibbling on remnants of old venison. It had been their only source of food for some time, though it wasn’t anything to be disappointed about. Nourishment couldn’t have come in much of a better form than this, and while he never complained, there wasn’t anyone to complain to even if he wanted. His existence didn’t afford him such luxuries, and, in truth, it wasn’t particularly necessary. After all, Bruce was a fly.

Bruce was but one in 87 flies, smartly laid by his mother deep within the warm carcass of a deer which had recently been hit by a semi-truck on the highway. Out of the original 87 eggs, only 62 hatched, and out of those 62, only 23 of them completed the metamorphosis from maggot to fly. Bruce vaguely remembered the journey from the guts of the deer to the surface, though he recalled the light had been nearly blinding. However, within the first few days in his encasement as a pupa, he’d become accustomed to it, and since his emergence, he couldn’t help but stare at the big, blue sky above them. Never in his life had he ever seen anything so spectacular, and the reality that his life hadn’t been particularly long in the first place was a detail of little relevance to him.

No one else seemed to notice and, in fact, did not generally seem to see or even think about anything beyond the carcass whatsoever. His brothers and sisters zipped around mindlessly, and any time he tried to tell them about anything that he considered amazing, they simply stared at him and said, “Buzzzzzzzz.”

With such an isolating difference between him and the rest of his family, Bruce spent an ever-increasing amount of time by himself. This didn’t bother him, however, as he had become fond of strolls at twilight along the exposed ribs of the deer. Bruce considered often how nice it would be to talk to someone about everything, though, and it was during one of these particular moments that Bruce first began to wonder why he was different.

He looked like the rest of them, ate the same food, slept the same way—more or less. There was no doubt that he was indeed a fly. Yet, Bruce did not feel like a fly, or whatever he imagined a fly should feel like. No one else cared about the great vastness above them. He was the only one who seemed effected by the vision of swaying tree branches in a breeze, the bright variances of color as the sun rose, its comforting warmth in the day, and its stunning brilliance at sunset. Even as he was sleeping, Bruce would see and feel these things, sometimes things he’d never felt or seen, and would wake with his heart racing euphorically before falling into despair upon realization of the truth.

It was after waking from just such a sleep and to such a feeling that he began his morning stroll earlier than usual, the sky still black and sparkling above, a full moon glowing. He walked along the bone until he’d come out into the light of the moon. As he moved past several droplets of dew, he noticed a shadow at his side, though more than simply a shadow. Bruce, at first thinking that perhaps one of his siblings had woken early as well, turned to see that this was not the case as he had come face to face with his own reflection.

This was not apparent to Bruce, however, and he wondered how many times he had been in that same spot before and not seen this strange aberration, a fly trapped within the water. It watched him as he watched it, and Bruce spoke first with mounting excitement.

“Hello, there,” Bruce greeted with a wave. “Are you on a stroll, as well?” The fly appeared to be trying to speak and wave also, yet Bruce heard nothing. “I couldn’t sleep,” he continued. “So, I came out to enjoy the night sky. Do you like the sky, too?” He spoke louder, and the fly in the water appeared more excited as well, but there was still no sound. “Can you hear me?” Bruce asked. “I say, can you hear me?” The fly appeared to be fairing all right there in the water, though apparently growing agitated as Bruce could not understand what the fly was trying to say. Presently, the fly became forlorn, and collapsed before him in defeat. “I’m sorry,” he said sadly.

It seemed only a moment later that the sun was up and the dew almost evaporated. A breeze tickled at Bruce’s wings, and they fluttered lightly. The fly’s wings in the water were hardly visible, but they, too, fluttered. Bruce adjusted his wings. The fly in the water adjusted his wings. One of Bruce’s siblings droned by. A second fly in the water suddenly droned by the first.

There was no doubt that he was indeed a fly. Yet, Bruce did not feel like a fly, or whatever he imagined a fly should feel like.

It is widely considered that, in all individual existence, it is the first moment of self-awareness which sets the course of everything to follow. That it creates a defining point of origin for the path of life and presents the possibility of extraordinary things. It is, for most, a pleasant thought. For Bruce, however, this awakening was something else altogether. In one microscopic moment, a fly named Bruce suddenly realized that he was both of the world, and apart from the world. He realized that he could do everything or nothing. His life was his to make whatever he wished it to be. Such a realization might seem invigorating, but to a fly, who—if lucky—lives but a matter of weeks, was earth-shattering. It had been one part genetics, two parts luck that he’d survived as long as he had. Already, half of his siblings who’d fully developed were dead. How could he ever do all he was capable of or experience all there was to be experienced with such a short and fragile life?

Bruce retreated into the carcass, trembling with fright at this sudden revelation. He was determined to keep himself alive at all costs and located an untouched section of intestine to hermitize himself. He would only come out for food when absolutely necessary, and what food he did get, he would ration. He could think of little else he might need, and before midday, he’d disappeared deep into the decaying animal. There Bruce stayed, and while at first he struggled with the lack of light, he didn’t find it all too bad of a place. There was nothing more to worry about. He had everything he would ever need, and now, all the time in the world to have it.

But Bruce did worry. At first, he worried about the food running out and so stockpiled it, restricting his ability to move, but when he dreamed, he dreamed of limitless space. After that, he worried about his stockpile being discovered and so blocked the entrance into his hideaway, isolating him more than he’d ever been, but when he dreamed, he dreamed of all the friends a fly could have. Pretty soon, Bruce’s own waste began to build up. This wasn’t so bad at first. After all, he was a fly, but it wasn’t long before he could hardly recognize his waste from his food. He quickly convinced himself that it was all edible, but when he dreamed, he dreamed of unattended picnics. He would live, Bruce thought, and that was all that mattered.

Then one day, as he dreamed of space, friends, and picnics, a rumbling erupted all around him, and his lair began to shake violently. The booming and the jostling sent Bruce into a panic, and, certain he was going to die, he cried out in anguished fury at the world that had it out for him and all his kind. No matter what he had done, his life was over, and all the things he had dreamed of doing were to never come to pass.

What Bruce was unaware of—by no fault of his own—was that the carcass of the deer which had been his only home was being cleared from the highway. As it was tossed into the bed of a truck, the very place where Bruce had made himself a sanctuary was torn in apart. The daylight burst in upon Bruce. The sweet, fresh air poured over his wings which had become caked with his own excrement and incapable of flight. His body landed somewhere foreign to him, and even the sky which has always been blue, was now gray and menacing. As little drops of rain began to land around Bruce, he lay, waiting to die.

In his defeat, Bruce no longer felt the desire for anything. He didn’t care about the sky. What did it care of him? He didn’t care about the trees or it’s swaying branches, or all the things he knew exist but would never experience. It wasn’t there for him. It never had been. Turning his face away from the clouds, he looked over where drops of rain were collecting, and in them he saw his reflection, the fly in the water.

Bruce waved feebly to the fly. The fly waved feebly back. The fly smiled weakly at Bruce. Bruce smiled weakly back. And they both said to each other, “This is all your fault.”


OTHER SHORT STORIES
BY STEPHEN DANIEL RUIZ

Enter: OBLIVION

Studies In gray.

THE SALESMAN