Title: Through a Broken Mirror

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: sickly-sweet love story clichés, violence

Words: 1400

A/N: WAS crew, don't mock me. Yeah, this is the one you guys were laughing at. Shut up. lol.

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“My dear, I—I can’t,” the woman’s voice broke as she looked into the deep black eyes of the man next to her. She swallowed hard and tried to regain her calm; she dropped her head to escape those eyes and toyed with her white dress, a white so pure it made her face and blond hair look angelic.

“Yes, Lily, yes you can.”

“But, Robert—” she was shushed by the man leaning nonchalantly against the brick wall. He was uncommonly still, only shifting his arm so he could look at her fully and rest his head in his hand. A black top hat showed off his eyes, the blue overcoat standing out against the brick. He looked the very part of a gentleman and, as he spoke, sounded as such.

“Please, Lily, think on it. I do not expect an immediate answer—I am not that naïve. I merely hope you will consider it,” here, he hesitated, his voice sounded lost and unsure, “consider me.” There was a pause as she looked down at the ground, not brave enough to meet his eyes; afraid of what those windows would show of his soul. He coughed and, as she glanced up at the sound, his face morphed back into its normal buoyant confidence.

Something in the wood surrounding their spot moved, the bushes rustling quietly, insistently, telling her to make haste, make haste.

“I am not at ease with our meetings,” she said, her green eyes roving through the woods, her ears picking up every birdcall. Robert’s hand touched her hair, her cheek softly, forcing her to look at him again. The love in his eyes astounded her; she’d only ever once been looked at like that by him, and it had been in a similar clandestine setting.

“I am not at ease when we are apart,” he said, his voice lilting with that Welsh accent, promises of everything she had ever wanted swirling in his eyes. He grinned madly, that roguish, madcap smile that made her feel faint. “Until such time, there is a sense of danger which I find thrilling.”

She laughed softly. Robert was her lover and she knew him thoroughly; he loved danger, but she knew he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. She felt a prick or two of guilt at how her husband would feel if he ever found out, but as she gazed back into the endless black eyes of Robert, she vowed that he would never find out.

“You have the most captivating eyes,” Robert said. “I lie awake at night with these green jewels burning into my mind.” His hand cupped her cheek and wiped away the tears she had unknowingly shed. His black eyes, done searching her face for clues, stared steadily into hers; her gaze flickered between those deep pools and his full lips, that infuriating, radiant smile lurking in one corner. His smile grew wider as he realized what she wanted—what she needed, what he would never give her—and he leaned down to her, his other hand at the back of her neck. Their lips met and, as the first time, she felt an explosion rock deep within her breast. He knew what she felt and his grin widened against her lips. It was—they were—beautiful and wrong and everything she could ever ask for; if this wasn’t right, if this wasn’t her way to heaven, she trembled at the thought of what could be.

But something did not feel quite right; could that be guilt? Or fear?

“Robert,” she sighed against his lips. She pulled away regretfully, gazing up at his blissful face. His eyes flickered open, asking a question without words. “Robert, this…this is not right.” His face darkened, barely unmasked impatience. “If Hubert finds out—”

“Damn Hubert!” Robert burst out, pushing away from her and the wall.

“But Robert,” she began timidly, “if he finds out—”

“And how will he find out?” He took off his top hat, running his hands through his hair in agitation.

“People could see.” It was more of a question than a statement, partially because her voice was shaking so badly. She couldn’t see; everything was turning strange colors; her mind clouded with visions of knives, blood, pain.

“Who would see?” He gestured to the forest around them; he was right, the forest was mostly silent, except for the uneven gusts of wind murmuring through the branches.

“I—I am not sure, but, Robert, it is a possibility.” He shook his head, staring out at the woods. They’d had this argument many times before; this was no different, except for a strange sense of foreboding. She was afraid of anything happening to the man she loved; she knew Robert was planning something, and she had tried all she could to talk him out of it. It was foolish; it was folly; it jeopardized their happiness. “I could not bear if something—something were to happen…” Her own words choked her; her resolve failed her and she covered her face with a jeweled hand, the tears flowing easily now.

“Oh, my dear Lily,” his voice was a sweet murmur in her ear as he hugged her. She held onto him tightly. He was a rock, a solid, unmoving part of her life; he would never raise a hand, nor speak harshly to her; nor would he let anything come between them. She had to end it, before somebody was hurt.

“Robert,” she breathed into his neck. She said his name over and over, letting her tongue roll over the word, the name of one she held so dear. It was so unfair.

They pulled apart slightly, enough to look one another in the face, and she sniffed, making a brave attempt at a smile. He smoothed his cool palm against her face, drying her drenched cheek.

“There, there,” he smiled at her sweetly. “Lily, my love.” He really did love her, didn’t he?

“My dearest Robert.” She stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss. His lips tasted of sugar and that unusual Robert taste.

The silver flashed through the air, just as he leaned in to kiss her again. She held on for dear life as she felt the knife strike flesh, then sink in; she pushed with all her strength, making sure the hilt plunged in all the way. She wept as she looked up at him, his shocked face, his black eyes losing their glimmer, their swirling promises. She watched the blood pour from him, staining his blue jacket, her ethereal white dress, felt the wet heat of it. He breathed her name one last time, his voice so sweet she would have never known he was dying if she hadn’t done it herself.

“Amy…”

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Yells sound from everywhere, cries, screams, a cacophony of noise.

“Amy! What the hell?”

“Ambulance! Someone call 9-1-1!”

“James! James, can you hear me? Stay with me, buddy. Ambulance!”

“How the hell’d she get a real one?”

“Amy, dear, put the knife down,” the soothing, if shaken, voice of the director says. “Can you put the knife down, please?”

Amy says nothing. She can’t say anything. Her mind is a whirl, an eddy of colors, voices, promises of love. Ghosts of people she cared for prowl like shadows around the outside of the clearing. She doesn’t know what to do; what can she do? She just murdered the man she loved. Just like Lily. Except Lily did it to keep people from getting hurt.

“Just like I meant to,” Amy whispers to herself, hugging the blood-stained knife to her chest. The cool metal is such a contradiction to the hot blood it’s slick with. Her mind is crystal clear, whatever dirty whole she’d falling in; the sharp pain, the memory, the feel of his lips on hers, the passion; passion in their characters, passion in their dressing rooms. Everything is strange; the world tilts topsy-turvy; the director’s face is distant and confused.

“I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

The last thing she knows is the electric feel of jagged metal; the cries, the screams, they all fade away as her knees hit the ground, as she falls over, seeing the world through a broken mirror. Black eyes tantalize her, the love in them taking her breath away slowly; even in death, she can’t escape him.

“My dearest James.”