Page 49 of Morena
Then he appeared.
Francisco came down the stairs. His voice broke through the buzzing in my ears.7“¿Qué pasó?”
He grabbed Maria, shook her shoulders, then dropped to my side. His hands pressed at my neck, searching desperately for a pulse.
He slapped my face, once, twice, but my body gave nothing back. No twitch. No breath.
Francisco got up and shoved her away, and said in a low voice. “Run. Go home. Hide. I will deal with this.”
For a moment, hope sparked. I thought he meant to save me. But when he turned back, his face had changed.
He crouched, picked up a long shard of glass, and drove it into me. Again. And again. Nine more times.
Thirteen.
Thirteen pieces of glass are tearing into my flesh, sliding through muscle, scraping bone. The sound of it filled my head. My blood sprayed against the mirror, painting it red until my reflection disappeared.
One tear slid down my cheek. My lips moved, but no words came. Inside, I begged.
Death, please, if you exist, take me. End this. Take me with you. I don’t want this pain.
My voice cracked out one last time.
“Muerte, si de verdad existes, arrástrame contigo; este dolor me devora, por favor, llévame.”8
The mirror shuddered. From within the shattered glass, something stirred.
At first, it was only a shadow, tall and hunched, its edges shifting like feathers. Then it leaned forward, and I saw the mask. Black, the kind worn in the age of plague. Its empty eyes glowed faintly, fixed on me, waiting.
It raised a hand, long, black fingers tipped with claws, and pressed it against the inside of the mirror. The glass groaned beneath its touch.
Death came for me.
But I was not dead.
At least not yet.
Paco’s hand clamped around my ankle, dragging me across the shards. My blood smeared the floor as he pulled me from mirror to mirror. Each reflection shifted, showing me not myself, but something worse.
The first mirror was silent. I watched myself lying in bed, lips sewn shut with thick black thread. People tried to speak to me, but all I gave them was stillness, my eyes wide with panic, unable to scream. My mouth bled where the stitches tore my skin. My chest froze.Was this the first gate of hell?
He pulled me past it.
The second mirror was hunger. I saw myself at a table, food disappearing the instant I tried to touch it. My stomach shriveled, my hands trembling, until I turned to the faceless figure beside me and tore into its flesh with my teeth. Blood spilled down my chin as I devoured the nameless body.
The third mirror burned. Flames licked across my skin, melting it into ash. In my hands, crumbling like paper, was a newspaper headline:Everything will burn in eighty years.My body writhed in the fire, but I could not drop the page.
The fourth mirror was a maze. Mirror maze. Every surface showed me as I had been called: ugly, weak, worthless. My own face laughed at me, sneered at me, called me names until I collapsed, clutching my ears. But the voices only grew louder.
The fifth mirror was a room filled with chains. A basement reeking of rot. Hooks pierced bodies that swung against the walls, their screams echoing off the stone walls. My own bodywas among them, arms pulled taut, metal hooks ripping through my back as I screamed until my throat tore open.
The sixth mirror was shadows. They poured from the walls, leaping, clawing, swarming me. They dragged me under, drowning me in black, again and again. Each time I clawed toward the surface, they pulled me deeper, my lungs bursting with darkness.
The seventh mirror waited at the end.
And in it, he stood.
Death.
