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BROKEN MIRRORS
By Priscilla Parker
"Pay attention!" DeeDee's voice hissed through her gritted teeth. "How many times do I have to tell you that we're not supposed to be in here?" She grabbed my wrist, her thumb pushing her finger into the soft under flesh, and dragged me up the stairs for the millionth time, just the same way that she had dragged me away from the farm; away from my Mama.
I held onto my shoulder to keep it from coming out of the socket and stumbled up stairs spaced too wide for my small gait. Everyday we went through this. I hid down in the basement, crawling down there from a hole beneath the old southern porch. I hid from her and him and the other lady who rocked all day; boards creaking in protest.
"Keep up!" She yanked hard and I tripped over the last step, my arm tearing from her hold.
Clomp, click, clomp, click.
I got up to my knees, my arm hanging useless at my side.
"What have we here?" His voice was sickly sweet like flowers that had been baking in the humid heat. The sound crawled over my skin and I wrapped my good arm around myself.
"Nothing sir. Just one of the kitchen maids slacking in her duties. I was just punishing her."
She reached over and yanked my hair hard, and left the handful of locks covering my face.
The tip of his cane came up under my chin and dug in. I raised my head away from it and found myself looking in milky blue eyes.
"A kitchen maid, huh? Let me see your hands, darlin'." He stank of pipe smoke and his expensive linen shirts were yellowing.
I lifted my hands. He grabbed the same arm DeeDee had yanked and turned it palm up. I winced. "Kitchen maid, indeed." He dropped my hand.
I peeked through my hair and looked at my own hands. What did he see or not see in them that I didn't.
"Tell me, Deirdre, exactly what duties does this little one perform that leaves no calluses?"
Finally, I knew my daily tormenter's full name. I mouthed it quietly. For all her beauty: platinum blonde hair fine as silk, grey-blue eyes, and all the pout a mouth could contain, she was cruel. I hated her and I hated brushing her hair. Her name gave me something to pin the hate on. And now, she was in trouble.
"I brush her hair. One hundred strokes every night after dinner. She sits in front of the mirror in her room."
"Why you little ingrate!" She shrieked.
I scuttled back toward the wall, but his cane was quicker than I. A large red welt appeared across her delicate cheekbone.
"Tonight, while you're getting your hair brushed, I want you to think on what that welt means. In the morning, make sure she's cleaned up. I want to see what you've been hiding from me, princess."
He started to leave and paused. "Undamaged." He did leave then, to the kitchen, where I could hear him murmuring orders to the kitchen staff.
Dierdre grabbed me by the shoulders. She trembled and tears gathered in the corners of her eyes like little glass crystal drops until they spilled down her face in neat streaks. She held my gaze. Tears freezing as the fear turned to anger.
"Hurt didn't it!" I yelled at her. "Now it's your turn. You hit me all the time and you make me do stupid things like brush your stupid hair and you never let me play with the other kids and you won't take me home! I hate you, Dierdre!"
I bolted up the second set of stairs that led to her room. I ran over to her vanity and grabbed her silver hand mirror and threw it to the floor. Light from the setting sun burst through the little rosette stained glass window and lit my triumph as she entered the room.
"No." It came out in a whisper. "Why you little-" She knelt in the shards of the mirror, face reflecting from a million different fragments. I watched as she watched herself lose every trace of sanity. She knelt there for hours, hunched, shoulders wracked with silent sobs.
Maybe she'd forgotten about me. I tried to slip away once to my bed near the entry nook, but I saw no way around her. Finally, I sat in her chair.
"Yes, my dear. That's a good idea."
I stiffened. Her voice sounded strange. I turned in time to see her crawl through the shards, cutting her hands and her knees. Blood stained her white dress.
"Tonight I'll brush your hair. One hundred strokes." She reached passed me. Shards of glass protruded from her hands and blood ran down in rivulets to her elbow, dotting her lacey cuffs. She didn't notice.
She grabbed a lock of my hair. I stiffened, ready for her usual cruelty. She was tender. I sagged into my confusion.
"Tonight, you're the princess. The prettiest. I don't know what I was thinking keeping you locked up here with me."
She brushed and brushed. I counted along. At one hundred she paused and then added another stroke. "One for good luck."
Rising, she walked through the shards leaving a wet trail to her bureau. I worried then, that she might be losing a lot of blood. Some of the pieces were big and some of the cuts were deep. "Let me get someone to help."
"Oh no dear." She pivoted and I could hear shards grinding into the wood flooring. "I don't need any help. I'm gonna dress you up fine. Now, you turn around and let me finish your hair."
Tenderly she grabbed the wealth of my hair and separated it into locks. The attention she lavished was soothing. I found myself relaxing and feeling badly about hating her. Maybe if she had just brushed my hair sometimes.
The metallic swish shocked me out of my reverie. I knew what she meant to do before she did it, but she had my hair clamped in her hand the way my wrist had been earlier. I twisted my head. "No."
Another swish, the tension abated and my head snapped forward. Her hands moved faster than I could. Clipping and snipping until she dropped the scissors. They landed with a clank.
Jumping up to run, I got four paces, and yelped as the shards bit into my foot. I hoped over them and fell to the floor. She yanked at tendrils of my hair like weeds, pulling them until parts of my scalp bled.
I cried silently. It had been my own doing. Time dissipated into the throbbing segments. I lay there listless.
She returned in between hard throbs and set about cleaning up wounds with a salve. It stung at first, but eased the throbbing. "I'm sorry. I said.
"Me too." She gathered me in her arms and laid me on my bed and rocked me to sleep.
****************
I awoke to the sound of banging on the door. It pounded harder than my head. "Dierdre, it's him." I was more afraid of him than I was of her. "What do we-"
I looked from the door to where she lay slumped over the vanity. A dark pool of liquid gathered underneath her stool. The hem of her white dress was drenched in it. "Oh no."
The door burst open and he came in. Clomp. Click. Clomp. Click.
"What in God's name?"
I sat up then. He looked at me, what little hair I had left clumped and plastered to my head with salve. I'll never forget the look of disgust that he gave me and, with a word, judged me.
"Damaged." He got up and hobbled over to Deidre and ran his fingers through her lank hair. "For shame."
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