So, I'm taking a Creative Writing class, and so far, I haven't actually written much outside of class. But today, I was reading through an anthology of sci-fi short stories, and I came upon an idea that simply HAD to be written. So I did. And this is the result. Keep in mind this is a work in progress, and it's still very rough around the edges. I'm open to critique and ideas, but flames and swearing are ignored.
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I suppose you could say everything began with my death. Not death in the manner of physicality, as you have likely presumed, but rather a quieter, subtler kind of demise few truly have the conscious ability to comprehend. The death of the soul.
Such a fragile little thing, one's soul. Vulnerable to the pricks and barbs of the world and its changes yet forever truthful, differing ever so slightly from person to person but enough alike that one can never mistake the common bond.
I seem to recall that my soul, when I last lay my eyes on it in that dismal crumbling ruin, had taken a mirror-form as a tiny winged man in a black dress uniform with a petite monocle over one iridescent eye. He had perched himself upon my shoulder, standing at attention with his thin gossamer wings folded flat down his back, trembling with nervous energy that refused to manifest elsewhere. I remember staring wide-eyed into the shattered reflection, wondering if perhaps my grandfather's madness had finally caught up with me. Then he clicked his heels, gave a sharp salute, and simply disappeared.
For the longest time, I kept silent about the whole affair, even when I started to feel the effects of my sudden loss, growing quite apathetic about pretty much everything, though I maintained the illusion of care in the presence of my superiors and family. I became struck with an incurable bout of insomnia, simply unable to sleep no matter what drugs I was prescribed or how much I drank. Were it not for my sister, I likely would have soldiered on into oblivion with no one else the wiser of my condition.
My sister, God bless her tender heart, finally confronted me after I forgot to visit the family home for the third week in a row, exhaustion causing my memory to fail more often than was usual, and I could not resist those begging cornflower eyes.
"It was your soul."
"Pardon?"
She took my broad callused palm in her delicate snowflake hands, her gaze solemn as she sat herself beside me upon the window seat.
"That little man you saw. He was your soul."
"How-?"
"Because I've met mine."
And she showed me, guiding me into the drawing room wherein had been installed a massive silver mirror commonly hidden behind a large curtain. It was a young girl in a sundress, barefoot and smiling with her wheat-blonde hair in curling pigtails, dragonfly wings fluttering excitedly as she waved to me from her seat upon my sister's shoulder. I half-expected to see my little man in uniform to appear and give the girl a sidelong glance, but my own shoulder remained bare.
"So, I no longer have a soul?"
A terrible question, but one that required an answer. My sister gave a soft sigh, turning her gaze from the mirror to look me in the eye.
"I'm afraid so, brother mine."
I could not take my eyes from that tiny winged girl, smiling happily and swinging her feet in the manner all children do, though I could see a bandage wrapped about one knee and yellowing bruises down the side of her face. A small voice in the back of my mind mentioned the fact that my little man had seemed a bit battered as well, his clothing worn and the monocled eye bisected by a vicious scar.
"But, why?"
She shook her head, golden ringlets swaying. The winged girl frowned, thin arms crossing over her narrow chest.
"I've no idea."
Not long after, we parted ways, my duties calling me away from home once more. And kept me from home, my unit called upon time and again to quell the uprisings of those our leader deigned inferior and the few who defended them. I did my best to maintain order among my countrymen without the violence others turned to, but I was but one man leading a small squadron.
"I'm sorry, Herr Blumenthal, but you and your family must move. This building has been requisitioned on the Fuhrer 's order."
"But my family has lived here for generations! My grandfather made the floral arrangements for your parent's wedding!"
"I know, Herr, but I'm afraid I have as much choice in this manner as you have. Either leave by your choice, or I will be forced to make you leave. I'm sorry."
Blumenthal was lucky, choosing to go under his own free will. My unit had become increasingly bloodthirsty, often chafing against my orders for non-violent conduct. One of the newer recruits had punched a rabbi earlier that week when we had been trying to convince the old man to remove himself from the property.
As I escorted Blumenthal and his wife past the wide windows of the boarded up flower shop, making sure to keep myself between the young couple and my restless unit, I found myself gazing past them to the window's reflection. It was a habit I had begun falling into ever since that fateful day with my little sister, sneaking glimpses of people's souls that no one else seemed to be able to see. My unit and myself were bare shouldered, but everyone aboard the rickety transport truck has some little winged thing perched upon their lapel.
No one ever knew what I saw in the mirrors and windows, and I never told. It was special secret, being able to see a person's true self the moment I glimpsed their reflection. I remember smiling every time I saw a child's soul, the little things all brightness and cheer, capering about without a care in the world. And lovers' souls, how they clung to one another when the people themselves feared to be exposed by a stray act of tenderness. But it disturbed me how those in the employ of our enigmatic leader were always bare shouldered. My squad mates, my superiors, young and old, devoid of that which made them human.
It wasn't until I was assigned to the camps that I understood why.
