**
“Nick!?”
Brenda’s eyes were no longer squinted, the discomfort of the bright bathroom lights irrelevant. Her husband was crumpled in a pile on the floor, hands clasped over his face, crying with quivering, muffled sobs. She ran to him, shaking off the rest of the fatigue that had accompanied her. There would be no going back to bed anytime soon-the shattering crack sound accompanied by Nick’s gruff shout saw to that.
She caught the source of the loud, awakening smash out of the corner of her eye. The mirror had a web of shatter points stretched across its surface. Some of the glass had fallen into the sink, now nearly overflowing with soap-stained water. Shutting off the spigot, she crouched next to Nick, two velvet palms running against the backs of his own hands.
“Nick,” Brenda called, “Honey, what happened?”
A few more sobs came out from between the fingers, followed by a couple of timid, frightened eyes. “Brenda?”
She helped him sit up. “What’s wrong, Nick?”
“I’m so sorry, Brenda!” He choked. “I’m so sorry!”
Brenda frowned. “Sorry about what? Why are you hiding your face like that?”
“Don’t you see it!? Don’t you see the mess on the sink!?”
“The glass? Yes I see it! What happened?”
“No-no-no! Not the glass! The blood!”
Brenda glanced back at the mirror and sink. “What blood? Nick, what blood!?”
The sobs slowed. Two of the fingers split open. “What does my face look like?”
Brenda coughed a breath of confusion. “Your face? Move your fingers so I-“
“No!!” Nick shouted. “Look at my face!! The part you see between my fingers!! What do you see??”
“Nick I don’t see anything wrong with your face!”
The fingers shifted again, revealing the forehead and cheek, as well as a timid eye. “Nothing?” he asked. “No white flesh?”
“What?”
“My skin-does it look strange? Too bleached or bloody?”
“Nick, your skin looks fine.” Brenda gently pushed his fingers away, “What happened to you?”
The masculine, angled face, traced on the cheeks with streaks of tears, threw an uncertain, frightened appearance at her, swallowing hyperventilated gulps of air. An unsteady hand gripped the counter.
“How did the mirror break, Nick?” Brenda asked, putting a hand under his armpit.
“I was-” For a half-crazed moment, he had considered vomiting out the truth about what had happened-all of what had happened last night-to her. Another effort at slowing his respiration yielded a little bit more sanity. He glanced at the sink, the water, the mirror. No blood. Shattered glass which would have to be cleaned up, meaning a new mirror would be included in the next paycheck, yes. But no blood, no skin, no phantom female face staring back at him.
Just the nick on his half-shaven face: a red spot, and nothing more.
Say something, Nick. Cover your tracks, buddy.
Yeah. This was all under the carpet as of now. Nothing had to be disclosed. No confession needed. It happened; it’s done and over with. Just make something up and put this behind you.
“Bad dream.” He mumbled, “I was having a bad dream about shaving.” He picked up the razor, giving a chuckle. “Didn’t realize I was sleepwalking, too.”
“You sure that’s all you had?”
“Yeah, yeah.” The story was coming together quickly; Nick might even end up believing it himself. “I think I startled myself, woke up in the middle of what I was doing and caught my own reflection. I punched what I thought was somebody else.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t slice your knuckle open, Nick.” Brenda rubbed the back of her husband’s hand, looking sadly at the scattered shards of reflection.
Nick caught her gaze. “I’ll clean it up before I leave.”
She glanced at him, then at the clock seated above the medicine cabinet. “Won’t that make you late?”
“I’ll leave a message for Donald. He won’t have a problem with it.” He picked up the trashcan, gingerly picking up the larger splinters. “It’s mostly going to be a catch-up day on paperwork, anyway. I’m sorry about this, Babe.”
She studied him for a moment before planting a soft kiss on his cheek-the unshaven side. “Well, I’ve been wanting to redo the bathroom anyway. Guess that’s one way to start.”
Nick looked at her with a sheepish grin. Brenda leaned her head against his shoulder. “You want me to get you a clean shirt?”
He looked down at the one on him now, as wrinkled as a raisin. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Here, give me that one, and I’ll drop it off in the hamper.”
Nick set down the trashcan, giving his shirt another look before removing it. “You want some coffee too?” Brenda asked.
“Love some. Donald doesn’t make his strong enough.”
She left the bathroom, her hand slapping the hallway light to life. Following behind her was the occasional clink of glass landing on glass. By now Brenda had no desire to sleep. Even if she had, the coffee sounded too good for her to pass up. Caffeine, here I come.
She rounded the corner, into the kitchen. Across the room lay the entrance to the laundry room, in which she would find a couple of Nick’s clean shirts hung neatly, as well as the hamper for dirty clothes. She didn’t bother with the light in here yet; there was enough residual shine from the hall to assist her, and an extra half hour spent here and there ensured that the kitchen remained clutter-free and clean, fit for display on any television commercial that touted the virtues of one brand of cleaner over another.
Nick-what was wrong with him? Never in their eight years of marriage had he ever done anything like that. When he was out for the night, he was out-sometimes to Brenda’s chagrin. Little more than a light snore could ever be heard from him, and never did he so much as even talk in his sleep, let alone sleepwalk. Nick’s dreams-if he ever did dream at all-were a private matter between Nick and Nick. Brenda had no access to whatever movies were playing in his mind. They were sold out, no admission. Not even popcorn at the concession stand.
The light splattered a dazzling yellow about the laundry room. Brenda’s eyes fell on Nick’s shirt, spotting the hideous smudge on the collar.
Is that blood?
“Now why didn’t I see that before?” she muttered to nobody in particular, holding it closer to her face. The oblong splotch, about as long as her finger, had bled through the material; Brenda was looking at it from the wrong side. Had Nick cut himself, and she didn’t see it? Did that nick on his face do this? No, impossible. It had been little more than a normal shaving cut; it shouldn’t have caused a stain like this. Which reminded her: she needed to remind Nick to finish shaving the rest of his face. Going in with have a shaven face would be quite the embarrassment.
She flipped the shirt over. Ah-there it was. Shouldn’t be too hard to get rid of, just a little bit of-
Brenda paused, studying the stain, furrowing her brow it. Seconds later, the furrowed brow gave way to an empty stare, her eyes drifting upward in horrified shock. The shirt cascaded to the floor in a gentle heap. On the top of that heap stood the stiff collar.
The cherry-tinted imprint of two lips upon it was no longer bleeding.
**
Dear Reader,
Sincerely,
J. Dean
About the author: J. Dean is the author of the Vein project, his first serious venture into the realm of professional writing. A graduate of the University of Michigan, he teaches foreign language in public school and also gives private tutoring sessions, but is hoping that the Vein project will serve as a springboard for becoming a full-time writer. Mr. Dean plays bass guitar and co-writes music for the progressive rock band Episodic, and enjoys other hobbies such as target shooting, martial arts, and cuisine experimentation in the kitchen. He and his
wife have two children and live in Michigan.
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