A Kiss for Lady Mihi

A Story by A.K. Rohner

Soft and tender

I looked deep into the glass, and I saw her. I saw the person that haunted me, that mocked me, that attacked me with every mistake, every blunder. I saw anger cross her smooth, imperfect features, and in my fear my fist collided with the glass, further ruining the already broken woman in the mirror. Yet she still stared, coldly, heartlessly back at me. Her face was broken up into hundreds of pieces, like an insect watching our insignificant lives while it focuses on its own survival. The poor woman must have been saddened by my outburst, because she cried thick red tears.
How fascinating, I thought, staring at my throbbing knuckles, the adrenaline finally catching up with the much faster pain. My poor knuckles were weeping as well, horribly guilty for their crime. Hitting a lady, I was taught, was forbidden. I felt bad for my poor knuckles, and gave them attention, petting them lightly, grasping them into a hug with my bare fingers. But alas, they bit back at me in response, pain soaring from my brain to my knuckles. Angered suddenly by the betrayal, I turned on my sink and drowned them beneath the water, washing away their tears and their cries of pain.
How pathetic that my knuckles would betray me so, of all the good I’d done with them. The people I’d helped. The people I’d freed from their prison. They cried the strange red tears as well. I looked back up at the woman, and she returned the gaze I sent her, mocking my pain, my feelings.
She appeared angry, then confused, then simply sad. She reached out through her window, the remaining glass falling into the sink. I reach out as well, and she grabbed my hand, softly, tenderly, and kissed my poor, drowned knuckles. She had forgiven me for my outburst, for my imperfections, my anger.
I was at peace.
With myself.