The Triumvirate Minus One
I hold my breath. Being heard means losing a friend, a part of myself. Peeking through Frankenstein’s Monster’s plastic skin and around a marble pillar, I see those hunting us mingling with those who’ve already given up. Their flipped-open pocket mirrors shoot rays of fluorescent light across the subway terminal. Their combed, parted hair carves through the crowd. Their faces, folded snowflakes, scan the area like darting chameleon eyes. I glance at my wristwatch. The train I’d promised my reflection we’d be on arrives in a few minutes.
Yesterday, they caught up to us, and we went from three to two. Yesterday, they took my shadow. They zipped him off me like he was a sleeping bag and shoved him into that horrible dark room where he’s being ordered to behave.
Before they found us huddled together, my shadow had told me about a hidden place without mirrors, a place full of sunlight, a place where we—my shadow, my reflection, and I—would be safe.
“We’ll be happy there,” my shadow had said, his pleading, flat limbs projected onto the abandoned building concealing us. “People are whole there.”
My reflection berated us, accused us of being selfish. I reassured him, told him we couldn’t do anything while escaping, that we needed a place to regroup, to think without survival fraying our mind like the sparking fuse of a firecracker.
We didn’t have time to devise a plan. They snuck up on us at night. My reflection debated them, questioned their ethics of one. My shadow fought, his dark tendrils slapping like nightmares. But we’d been running for so long. They snapped my shadow off us, sending us soaring like rubber bands. When we landed, my reflection and I hid under concrete rubble, and I swore we’d reach this hopeful place.
We’d go for my shadow.
We’d go for what we had left of our self.
All around us, commuters bump into each other. Each collision sends them in different directions like banging pool balls. They swing their briefcases to a silent rhythm. Like a field of grass, everyone looks the same.
Those hunting us push through the throng. They stop a man whose button-down slightly hangs untucked from his khaki-concealed waist, an imperfection. They wrench his arms behind his back. They stick their pocket mirrors in front of his face. The man’s head goes slack. He’s not who I thought. He was a comrade hiding in plain sight. Sadly, by now his reflection probably no longer resembles him.
I look at a cracked poster case. I want to comfort my reflection, to let him know the same thing won’t happen to us.
“.mih evas ot evah eW,” my reflection says, his words as disjointed as his masked features, like he’s being painted by Picasso. “.us fo eno s’eH .od ot gnith thgir eht s’tI”
“If we help him, we’ll be him.”
My reflection’s always lecturing me on what’s right and wrong. When we moved like someone running a three-legged race, things were easier. My shadow and my reflection would each offer their opinions, and as the conjoined leg in the middle, I’d weigh their suggestions before deciding which way we turned. Without my shadow, it’s nothing but, “.retteb eB. .redrah yrT” Without my shadow to balance out my reflection’s unrelenting morality, all I’m left with is guilt and remorse. Without my shadow, I’m stuck trying to live up to my ideal self.
Crouching, I slink around the marble pillar. I stay low, behind the backs of the commuters coming home from work, from their unquestioned responsibilities, from their routine of recycled days. Close, I shove one of those hunting us and grab the untucked man’s arm. Another one of those hunting us spins me around and extends his pocket mirror, but Frankenstein’s Monster protects me.
I yank the man forward. The sound of clacking boots chases after us. We sprint across the busy platform. I trip those in our way, creating roadblocks. From puddles, my reflection apologizes, but we can’t stop to help them up.
Like a slowing rollercoaster, the train pulls in and parks. The doors hiss open. We dart inside. I lie the untucked man on a vinyl seat and stare into his eyes. His pupils shrink into needle points.
No light is getting in or out.
His reflection is gone.
Over an intercom, a muffled voice announces the next stop. The train starts to chug. I look out a splintering window, hoping to catch my reflection smiling as we cruise through the tunnel.
“.retsaf detca uoy ylno fI,” my reflection says.
I tried to save him. I really did.
I straighten the man and lean against him. I close my eyes, try to relax, but the darkness behind my eyelids reminds me of my shadow, of how I failed him, of that bleak place where he’s being told to behave again and again. I try to navigate the darkness, to figure out where I went wrong, to fight, but I keep walking into invisible walls, boxing myself in. I cup my hands around my mouth. I go to shout, to tell my shadow I’m coming, but all that comes out is, “I’m sorry.”
My eyes spring open. Sitting across from me is one of those hunting us. Everyone in the train car has transformed into one of them. I stand, but there’s nowhere to go. They seize my arms, pin them behind my back. They kick the back of my knees. I fall. They rip Frankenstein’s Monster from my face. They raise their pocket mirrors, and I see my reflection. It’s been so long since I’ve truly seen him. I want to say I tried, want to say anything really, but I don’t. I just gaze back. My head droops, and I continue gazing. I gaze for so long I don’t know who’s gazing back.
Then I’m all alone.
One of those hunting me whispers into my ear.
Tells me who I am.
Will Musgrove
Will Musgrove is a writer and journalist from Northwest Iowa. He received an MFA from Minnesota State University, Mankato. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in trampset, Cleaver Magazine, The Lumiere Review, Oyez Review, Tampa Review, Vestal Review, and elsewhere. Follow him on Twitter at @Will_Musgrove.