The Theory of Mirrors
Picture Credit to vbagiatis
The bottle slipped through my fingertips and dropped into the salty sea like a bomb. A bomb filled with words that will splinter into the universe, causing far more destruction than any metal and gunpowder cylinder ever could. In her world man wields power through machines. In mine it's only through spoken words. Syllables and rhymes woven together to make something greater than themselves. In her world man uses fire and force to create beasts that will fight their problems for them. Not here.
We use words and words are far more dangerous. Words plant thoughts and ideas and are spread through whispered wisps of sound that move faster and farther than tanks and jets. They carry more weight and cannot be stopped by an ordinary man holding a machine gun or a sword or a grenade. Words are unstoppable once spoken. Like a disease or a cure.
The number of rules I'm breaking by dropping this bottle and it's paper and ink contents are uncountable, immeasurable. But if I chose the right words, if I wove them carefully enough, she may be able to save him from repeating our mistakes. I couldn't bare for her to suffer the same madness that I have. That he has. That we have, possibly over and over again. Every mirror has a different shape, a slightly altered view, but in the end it can only mimic the image in front of it. If this bottle reaches her, every mirror will shatter. In theory. And right now theory is all I have. Words and theories.
How many times have I stood on this very rock and thrown that very bottle? How many waves have crashed against the shore between the last time and this time? How many times have I, has she... found that bottle and read it's contents aloud?
I hope this will be the first time. Her life and her world depend on this being the first time. But when you've only ever known one life, how can you know what happened in other lives? In other times? In other worlds? In other memories? This time has to be different. For their sake. For our sake, I hope this time is different.
I heard them behind me but I didn't bother turning. He yelled for me, no at me. He yelled at me to turn around, to look at him. He needed reassurance. As his army descended on me he was still asking for forgiveness. How dare he.
Just as I knew they would, they spoke the words reserved for those of the wickedest ranks, who break only the most dire of laws. It hurt more than I thought it would. The blood in my veins boiled and my skin was suddenly too tight and there were a million angry bees buzzing in my head, and yet through it all I knew I had made the right decisions. And as their powerful words seeped into every pore and molecule of my self, I made a decision. One that would make things easier on him. Because that's who I am. Who I have always been. Even in death I will be braver than him, more kind, more sure.
I tried to smile through the pain, because it's laugh or cry and I would never leave him with the memory of such a weakness.
"Goodbye," I whispered, knowing my words weren't even audible and in that second he stopped chanting and a single tear slid down his nose. I felt his pain. Our pain. We have an uncanny connection that will ever only be broken by one thing. We both know it. We both knew it from the second we met. Perhaps we should have seen this coming. Seen all of it coming. But we didn't. And now we're faced with the reality of our decisions. Those we made willingly and those we forced upon each other.
With his silence I felt no pain and moved surely to the edge of the rocks. He didn't move to stop me. The coward. And I jumped.
image credit to Neonnote