Lies in the Looking Glass
A Crime Story
The man stood in a gloomy and decaying lodging house. To the world, he was an obscure and wretched figure, an embodiment of ugliness and misery. But within the confines of this small room, he fancied himself a paragon of beauty and charm.
Golden brown brandy cascaded from the bottle. He tapped the bottle on the rim of the tumbler with the tinkle of glass on glass. He replaced the stopper and returned it to the drinks tray atop the chest of drawers. He swilled the drink around the glass and lifted it level with his nose. The crisp aroma brought a smile to his face.
He looked over his shoulder, ‘Do you mind if I drink?’
A pause.
‘Ha. Of course you don’t.’
He traced his index finger along the surface of the drawers as he made his way across the room to the washstand, oblivious to the line he drew in the surface dust parallel to the grain of the wood. With each step came a gritty crunching sound from the unswept and exposed floorboards.
A bowl of water was nested on the washstand. He looked at his reflection in the water and smiled. His foot caught the base of the washstand and sent ripples across the surface of the water. The instant his reflection distorted, he looked away. It was time for a sip of brandy to settle himself again.
The looking glass hung before him, the size of a man's torso and bordered with a heavy rectangular brass frame. A frame unpolished, matching the rest of the bed chamber. Flowers and leaves and petals were carved into the brass but grime had built up in the intricate nooks and crannies and remained there through years of neglect.
 He was lit by flames from the candles that flickered in wall sconces on either side of the looking glass. He straightened his back, locked eyes with his reflection and took a slow draught of the brandy without breaking eye contact with himself. His relaxed smile returned.
With a delicate touch, he smoothed the front of his tailcoat. He turned sideways to examine the look from a new angle. Appearances are everything, even he knows that. He would prefer to appear overdressed than underdressed. Never do know when he might see someone important. He examined his side profile and, happy with his work, drained the brandy.
‘You’re quiet over there. What do you think?’ This made him laugh with his mouth closed - a sinister, throaty laugh. ‘Never mind,’ as he gave his hand a theatrical waft. He found his reflection and he pouted.
The man stood before the tarnished looking glass that hung upon the wall. He gazed upon his reflection, whispering sweet compliments to the face staring back at him. With each sip of brandy, his self-adoration grew. ‘It is my misfortune that I only get to see myself through a reflection, yet everyone else gets the pleasure of staring as long as they wish when graced with my presence.’
The man crunched back over to the chest of drawers, hands in his jacket pockets and his finger poking through a hole. He carried the decanter to the washstand and poured another brandy. ‘I’m back,’ he said to his reflection. ‘I wonder what regular people see when they look into the looking glass,’ he thought aloud, shrugged and finished his second drink.
‘You think I look good, do you not?’ He said into the room as he poured a drink from a ridiculous height which splashed specks of liquid onto the washstand. ‘Ha! Of course you do.’
Then he was making eye contact in the looking glass once again. Pink patches started to rise on his cheeks from the alcohol. He cupped one-half of his face in his palm and closed his eyes. His face was warm to the touch, fingers cradling the cheekbone while his palm and thumb supported the jaw. Contented, he stood normally again and drank.
He extended his arms in a self-assured gesture, a challenging expression on his face as he admired his reflection. ‘You appear absolutely splendid,’ he complimented himself. Dressing up was a rare occurrence for him. The latest trend was dining out, a novel and exclusive activity primarily enjoyed by affluent gentlemen of society, often in the company of fortunate ladies they had selected to accompany them.
He turned his head sideways slightly without breaking eye contact and pouted. In a flash, he pushed himself away from the washstand and twirled. Around and around he went, once, twice, two more times. He nearly lost balance and stopped, pouting at his reflection once more. ‘That’s the brandy balance.’ He refilled the glass and returned to regard himself.
His arms were outstretched again and his feet were together like a crucifix. He began to fall backwards in the crucifix pose until the bed opposite the looking glass broke his fall.
No sooner had he let out a contented exhalation on the bed was he was back in front of the looking glass. The pupils of his eyes were black coins now, and he glared at himself. Slowly, he bowed his head until his reflection dipped below the looking glass. Then his head snapped back up with the stopper from the decanter between his teeth. He smiled, baring his teeth with the piece of glass keeping his mouth from closing.
The laughter and the smiles continued for a while, as did the flow of brandy. The liquid coursed through his veins and he blew a kiss at his reflection.
His attention settled upon the flickering flame of one of the candles by the looking glass. He leaned close to it and watched. Bright and hot, the flame danced to a never-ending song. Where the burning wick met the melting stick the wax was shiny. He looked even closer than he had been, eyes becoming bloodshot. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the liquid wax and turned away with a gasp. He couldn’t bear an imperfect surface to admire himself. To him, it was as bad as a looking glass with a thousand cracks cobwebbing across the surface.
He dropped into a crouch and began to hop like a jackrabbit around the room. ‘Pardon me,’ he spoke as he sprang over a pair of boots as if playing some bizarre game. His shoes crunched on the rough boards and his tailcoat flapped up and down with each hop. Shoes and a tailcoat, the only garments he wore.
The brandy was back in his grip, pressed to his mouth. He swallowed and licked his lips. His hair was askew after his sudden moment of exertion around the room. Pink patches on his cheeks turned red. A sheen of perspiration broke out on his forehead and top lip. The line between the lodging house and oblivion became ever more indistinct as he showered compliments upon himself.
The unmistakable sound of a door opening took his attention away from the looking glass. ‘Must you make such a noise at this early hour?’ Called a man’s voice from the floor below. The air was thick with tension as the newcomer ascended the creaking stairs.
Before the newcomer entered the room, Edgar's mind raced. He yanked the looking glass from the wall and positioned himself behind the door, concealing his unsettling appearance from the man as he crossed the threshold. The looking glass, now his shield against reality, offered him a partial view of the chamber. The perspiration intensified and a bead rolled between his eyes and down his nose.
The newcomer spotted a lifeless body on the floor and recoiled in horror at the angry purple bruise around his neck. He was about to flee, to fetch help, but when he turned he could see a man’s reflection and froze. The new man saw someone holding a looking glass around the open door where he hid, observing. The man holding the looking glass put his palm on the door and slowly, slowly, pushed it closed. All the while, looking indirectly at the new man via the looking glass with a crazed smile that would scare any human.
‘What do you want?’ The man’s voice lacked the conviction it had when he first called up the stairs.
Edgar clutched the looking glass by the frame and held it up at head height. He approached the man, head and shoulders twisted away from him, still using the object to see into the room.
’You’re mad you…’ was all the new man managed to utter before the looking glass was swung at him, the corner crashing into his temple, folding him to the floor on impact.
The man with the looking glass hefted it up above his head to bring it down on the motionless man once more but it clattered into the ceiling and a cloud of plaster crumbled onto his head. It entered his lungs when he inhaled. ‘Bloody hell!’ he coughed. Then raised it again, carefully this time. He brought it down on the man’s head, the base crushing his skull.
He hung the looking glass back in its place and collapsed on the bed.
In the aftermath, as the brandy's effect waned and daylight seeped in, he confronted the grim reality of his actions. The room seemed smaller, more suffocating than before, and the looking glass now revealed the reflection of madness, twisted with guilt.
In his darkness, he spoke to his reflection, pleading for forgiveness and escape. But the looking glass remained indifferent, an unforgiving portal that revealed the truth he so desperately wished to avoid.
In the end, the lodging house stood silent and empty, bearing witness to the madness that had consumed the man. The mystery of the murders remained unsolved, and tales of the room persisted for years to come, forever mingling truth and delusion.