soulchaser

I was practically falling out of a cubicle in the men’s room when I saw this guy, lighting his cigarette in front of the mirror. He was concentrating so hard that I don’t think he even realised I was there, staring into his own eyes with an intensity that looked capable of shattering his reflection. I humoured the idea that he had hypnotised himself and was unable to snap his own fingers to reverse the spell. “Practice makes perfect.” I joked as I approached the basin next to him, smiling drunkenly and meaning only to relax him enough to begin a conversation. He didn’t flinch or jump but after a precisely timed pause he turned and looked into me with that same stare and for a second my good humour vanished and I realised that he was between me and the door out of there. His look changed after an eternity that lasted a microsecond, he relaxed his shoulders, took a long, perfect drag of his lucky, put his left hand in his trouser pocket, lent against the wall with his left shoulder and began talking with an earnest expression that he punctuated with his right hand, using the cherry of his cigarette to draw patterns in the air that mimicked his speech.
“You see,” he began, pausing for another wonderful drag, “you can’t take anything for granted. You can’t rely on chance. There’s no such thing. No fate, no destiny, only you and your balls and they swing the way you make them. If you rely on chance then some other fool will exploit your mistake and then you lose.”
I was dumbstruck. I couldn’t move through fear that what he was saying meant that I had lost and he was going to ram the cigarette into one of my eyeballs before pulling out another one and practicing again, impervious to my screams as I lay on the floor clutching my blinded eye. He was so calm and composed and didn’t look at all like that was his intention, but isn’t that always the way with homeopathic psychos. But it was more than fear that held me there; the way he spoke, the way he stood and regally waved his hand, comfortable in his impeccable posture that makes most people look like they have a broom up their arse, his unblinking eyes that stared straight into mine, his voice, soft and unhurried and carrying such authority. I was mesmerised. Here was a man who had groomed every single aspect of his entire being into the perfect modern day specimen, and who actually made it look natural. In one moment he looked intellectual and down to earth, composed and spontaneous, sharp but casual, serious but good-humoured, a philospher and a and a womaniser, a smile that would befriend any man and make any woman weak at the knees, and eyes which were so bright and intense it excited you just to know they were there. Eyes that seemed able to set things on fire with the merest glance and oh happy day when they landed on you! Having them focus on your own was like a brush with death, an experience that left you exhilarated and exhausted and more alive than at any moment you could remember or imagine.

He continued to smoke while my brain flapped and floundered and desperately tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t be so banal as to offend his presence and give him cause to smite me for disrespecting his wit. I felt like a man hired by God to paint his portrait. Only if this were God I would have expected patience, mercy even. As it was I felt as if my very soul was on the line. Could I see real flames dancing in those fiery eyes; was the temperature of the room really rising; was his perfect posture aided by some invisible, forked tail that lazily swept the air behind him with awful grace and power?

A horror took over me and a cold sweat formed on the back of my neck despite my burning skin. The vision before me spread his lips into a beautiful, knowing smile, sucked the last piece of life out of his cigarette before dropping it to the floor and crushing it on the cold, tiled surface. He looked back up at me from under his designer eyebrows that seemed to flick up at the edges, the smoke still rising from his foot, spun on his heel, whipping the air as he went, and disappeared through the door into the blackness beyond.

I stared into the mirror above the basin. Stared right through it desperately trying to form a conscious thought, a clear thought that I could hold on to, but they swam like phantoms through my mind and every time I tried to grip one it slipped through my fingers like some ethereal bar of soap. I suddenly became aware of my reflection staring back at me. My eyes were wide, my mouth slightly gaping, my skin pale and pasty looking. I stood staring at this image for longer than I know, I couldn’t fathom it, it was my turn to be hypnotised but it wasn’t of my own doing. The person staring into my eyes wasn’t me. It couldn’t be me. Compared with the smoldering angel who had stood right here just moments before and had marked this mirror with his beauty, this man resembled something I couldn’t bear to be. At the time I couldn’t have begun to express what that was, but scanning the face over and over there was nothing in it that held your gaze; nothing that looked worthy of a closer look; of further examination; even the eyes of this man, the looking glasses to the very heart of his soul, appeared empty. This man was dead.