Mulled Vine

The whispering started this morning, first like a gentle breeze, a lover’s touch, but then louder and more insistent, until now finally they cried to me in a gale of incoherent imperitives. I staggered to the bathroom in search of pain relief, clutching my pounding head, but was stopped in my tracks by my reflection in the cabinet mirror: a pale, crumpled countenance, agony visible in every tensed furrow; but it was the eyes that caught my attention – wild with manic fire, they burned at me to yield. Yield, they cried, yield, screamed the voices, but I would not. I roared with all my might and closed my eyes, beating my hands against the mirror until the bloodied pieces lay shattered in the basin and on the parquet floor. Then I opened my eyes and he was gone, the voices were gone, first simmering sulkily in the background … but then quiet … quiet … quiet … blissful peace…

“Honey, are you ok? … Daddy?” interrupted the voices behind me … loudly … insistently.

I slowly picked up a shard from the basin, and turned, smiling.