Viktor was breathing hard as he came down the stairs. In his hands was a large mirror in a heavy frame, wrapped in protective film. He set it against the wall opposite the couch and, with a ceremonial flourish, tore the wrapping off.
The glass caught the bulb’s dim light and reflected the concrete floor, the old couch, and… Anya.
“There,” he said, stepping back to admire his work. “As promised. Now you can see how beautiful you are. That little mirror in the corner—what could you see in it besides your nose?”
Anya rose slowly. She was still wearing the same blue silk dress. She walked to the mirror, and her footsteps felt wrong—like they belonged to someone else. She stopped a meter from the glass.
“Oh God…” she whispered.
She saw herself. The dress that used to cling now hung loose at the shoulders. Her face was unnaturally pale, almost translucent, and her eyes were huge and dark from constant fear and lack of sleep. The blue silk against the dirty gray walls looked… funereal.
Viktor came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, studying their reflection in the mirror.
“Look. Isn’t this what any woman dreams of? Silence. Peace. The perfect dress, and a man who looks only at her. You look like a painting, Anya. My personal painting.”
Her lips began to tremble.
“I… I look like a ghost.”
He frowned. His fingers dug a little harder into her shoulders.
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“You’re exaggerating. You just need to get used to the light. And put on some makeup. You have your cosmetics—I brought them for exactly that.”
Anya looked at her hands in the mirror, then at Viktor’s hands on her shoulders. The sight of herself pierced the armor she had built. The first tear slid down her cheek, then a second. She covered her face with her hands and started to cry—hiccupping, shaking all over.
His voice changed; irritation slipped into it, mixed with confusion.
“Here we go again. What’s wrong now, Anya? I’m trying. I give you everything you ask for… and you’re having a meltdown again. You don’t like the mirror?”
“That’s not me… That’s not me in the mirror!” she shouted through sobs. “Look at me! I’m dying here, Viktor! The real me stayed out there, on that street, that evening!”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her toward him, forcing her to meet his eyes.
“Stop it! Enough with the melodrama!”
He exhaled and tried to soften his tone again, but steel still ran through it.
“You’re crying because you’re selfish. You feel sorry for your old, worthless life. But you should be happy you’re here. That I chose you.”
She tried to calm down, wiping her tears with the hem of the expensive dress.
“Sorry… I just… I didn’t expect to look like this.”
He softened when he saw her submission. He took out a handkerchief and wiped her cheeks himself.
“That’s better. Don’t ruin your face. You know, I can’t stand it when you cry. It makes me feel like I’m the bad guy, and I don’t want you thinking of me that way.”
He turned her back toward the mirror.
“Look at yourself. Every day you’ll like yourself more. Because here you’re the center of the universe. And there you were just dust under strangers’ feet.”
Anya looked into the mirror. Her gaze went cold and distant; the tears dried.
“Yes, Viktor. You’re right. I just… I’m not used to being this important yet.”
“Now that’s more like it,” he said with satisfaction and patted her shoulder. “Wash your face. I’ll bring you peaches. Sweet as honey. Eat some.”
He left, pleased with himself. Anya stayed standing in front of the mirror. She looked at her reflection—but not at her face. She looked at the frame. She saw that the mirror was attached to a wooden backing with large screws. And one of them, at the very bottom, hadn’t been screwed all the way in.