The Gray House

The mirror is a mocker. Purveyor of nasty practical jokes unfathomable to us, since our time runs faster. Much faster than is required to fully appreciate its sense of humor. But I do remember. I, who used to look into the eyes of a bullied squirt, whispering, “I want to be like Skull,” now meet the gaze of someone who looks much more like a skull than the eponymous character. To compound the joke, I am now the sole possessor of the trinket that was responsible for his nick. I can appreciate the humor born behind the looking glass because I know what I know, but I doubt many would wish to pay for that knowledge by spending countless hours talking to mirrors.

I know an achingly beautiful man who runs from mirrors like they were a plague.

I know a girl who has an entire set of mirrors around her neck. She looks into them more often than she looks around, so the world for her exists in little upside-down fragments.

I know a blind person who sometimes freezes watchfully in front of his reflection.

And I remember a hamster attacking its own reflection with the fury of a berserker.

So don’t tell me there isn’t magic hidden in mirrors. It is there, even when you’re dead tired and not good for anything.

I stop detaching and catch the eyes of my reflection.

“Jeez,” I say. “What a monstrosity . . . At least put some clothes on, my friend.”

The monstrosity, naked, covered in scratches, eyes crazed with insomnia, looks back reproachfully. He’s got a Band-Aid over his right eyebrow, his left ear sticks out, flashing red, and dried-up blood covers his busted lip.

Chastised by the mute reproach, I turn away.

“All right. Sorry. You’re perfect. Just a bit out of sorts is all.”

I wiggle the bath towel from the hook onto my back and smooth it out over my shoulders with my teeth. Now draped in the fluffy white toga, I can emerge from the bathroom.

“There are people who live their lives as if running some kind of experiment,” Sightless One said about the recent events. Beats me why this desire to experiment takes over so many at once. With no breaks in between. Noble, then Black, and finally me. There’s a certain logic to it. Is this the way flu epidemics start? This virus of aggression and apprehension flies from one person to another, multiplying unstoppably. A dark period in the life of the pack, and one hard to snap out of.

I freeze, close my eyes, and try to identify it, this abomination that managed to sneak in from who knows where. To know its smell, corner it, return it back to where it belongs. But I feel nothing, apart from the two sleepless nights pressing down on my eyelids. Well, that and the smell of someone’s socks, apparently buried in the pile of boots and sneakers. The shoe cemetery needs to be dealt with at some point, before we start getting mice addicted to the toxic vapors.

I open the door. The room is empty and quiet, which makes it seem smaller than it is, even though it should be the other way around. But this is not how it works here. Considering that Humpback always brings trees with him wherever he goes; that Alexander is shadowed by an invisible choir belting out the “Lacrimosa”; that Noble is always in his ivy-walled castle and only puts down the drawbridge when he feels like it, while Jackal is capable of spawning another half-dozen of himself at any moment; and that it’s a blessing that at least Lary is not dragging the corridors inside when he walks in the door, and Tubby only does his magic when cooped up in his pen . . . Considering all that, it’s not surprising that our room, overflowing with all those different worlds, would seem smaller now than when we’re all in it.

I sit on the bed. I’m hungry, but I need sleep even more. I rest my forehead against the bars and switch off for a while. Until there’s a quiet rapping on the door and the swish of rubber tires.

It’s Smoker.

He’s glowing, renewed after visiting the Cage. He’s a nice guy, he doesn’t bring anything here except himself. And his nightmarish questions.

I give him a one-eyed birdlike look. The other eye can’t see from behind the hanging strip of Band-Aid.

“Hi!” he exclaims, but darkens immediately. “What happened here?”

I feel pangs of guilt. Those who are returned from the Cages should be met jubilantly. This is how it goes, ever since the times when nobody went there of their own accord. And I’m a tired scarecrow right now, incapable of performing the requisite rituals.

“Had a disagreement with Black. How are you doing? Everything all right?”

Plump, rose-cheeked Smoker, with those shiny bangs all the way down to his eyebrows. He passed the test of the Cage. Of course he’s all right, I can see it clearly, but I have to ask to make sure. Cages are not good places. Not the worst in the House, but still pretty bad. I’m glad Smoker didn’t have a reason to find that out. Even though being glad about it is not a good idea.

“Everything’s great,” he confirms. “It’s like I’ve been reborn! All thanks to Jackal.”

“I’m happy you feel that way.”