The Scar Grinned At Me From the Mirror

It was twisted and purple, ugly, and was grinning back at me. I slammed my eyes closed, sweat running down my forehead. The staples hurt today, and I expected the scar underneath to be ugly, but nothing like this. The incision ran from my left arm across my chest to my right arm, where the intruder had cut me before I shot him. He lay bleeding on the floor and started smiling, and the smile turned into a hilarious laugh as he died, and I swear he was still laughing when he passed away. A day I would rather forget.

"Jack Hedwig, you old son-of-a-gun! Good to see you back at work, buddy."

Jack flinched back when Dave slapped him on the shoulder, his arm still throbbing from the fist fight he and the intruder had two nights ago.Dave was a good friend and a confidant.

"Well, well, the little town pussy boy returns a hero. How's it feel to kill someone, Jackie boy? Not like the movies."

Jack felt his face grow warm and his fists knot into a ball when he heard Kieth's remarks from the back office. Keith always made fun of and provoked him when they worked together, but Jack never felt rage burning inside him until today. A drop of blood fell to the floor where his nails had dug into the palm of his hand, and an unfamiliar voice came out of nowhere,

Jack, when he leaves work, beat his head

into the pavement until he squeals like a

pig!

And then the laughter, the same nasty laughter he heard from the intruder, but that couldn't be right. It must be the pain medicine making him crazy and it was too soon to return to work.

"I just came by to get a few things. I'll be working from home for a couple of weeks."

Jack grabbed a folder and some papers and quickly slipped out the back door, loose papers falling on the floor behind him. His heart raced, sweat covered his face and his legs felt like rubber as he walked to his car. Stiff, boney fingers reached for a cigarette in the front pocket of his shirt. Six cigarettes, neatly tucked in there every morning, had to last the entire day. One bent cigarette remained. His watch showed the time was 11:58 am, but he didn't remember smoking any of them.

The dressing used to cover the scar was itching and felt soggy, and a drop of blood stained his blue shirt. The bandage was supposed to be changed every couple of hours, and the scar kept clean and dry, so this wasn't good. Jack began whistling; a nervous habit he'd picked up a few years ago, and a slight chuckle broke the silence.

You like to whistle, Jackie boy? Whistle me this, then. What big dumb jerk thinks his thoughts are his own, and oh, what about that time-lapse, you know, forgetting about smoking those cigarettes? Where were you, Jackie? Were you a bad boy?

Demonic laughter filled the car, causing Jack to swerve to the side, narrowly missing a pedestrian crossing the street. His foot slammed on the brake, tears pouring down his face and his hands covering his ears as he wept. Seconds later, police cars surrounded him, ensuring the pedestrian was okay but mostly trying to determine what was wrong with Jack.

It was dark when Jack woke; the bandage felt dry and comfortable, there was no pain, but the walls around him looked unfamiliar. As his eyes adjusted, he found his glasses on a metal stand beside the bed, slipped them on, and looked around. Oh God, this was a hospital, no doubt a psychiatric ward, because of the accident! A cigarette, that's all that was needed, but there was a damn IV connected to his arm, and he couldn't get it out.

Why don't you roll the IV outside with you? Who cares what that ugly old bitch behind the desk thinks; show her your scar Jackie, and she'll run screaming down the hall!

Jack took a deep breath, squinted his eyes, and agreed with the voice that the woman behind the desk was a stupid old bitch and she couldn't stop him! Only now, the wicked laughter was coming from him instead of just his brain.

The mortuary had been quiet all evening. The man with the fatal gunshot wound was rolled in around 8 pm, a stupid smile still pasted on his face.

"I know this guy, Bill; he was the young guy who never said much, a nice guy until he got cut by that old antique saw in the shed. After that, he got mean and went on a spree shooting people, animals, and anything in his way. He had this big ugly scar on his back, but now it's almost gone. Amazing."

Bill stared at the body, an eerie smile still on the corpse's lips. "His name is Paul Rayworth, and he lived out on a farm with his dad. His mom passed when he was small, and the kid was always quiet, well mannered."

Both men felt horrible about Paul's death and began the ugly process of undressing him and getting him ready for an autopsy. Old man Rayworth was a tyrant; some said he was crazy and killed his wife. He stormed into the morgue and demanded to know what the autopsy showed before they even started the procedure. Old man Rayworth didn't shed one tear, and security escorted him out. He was yelling and then laughing like a lunatic.

Jack could feel the scar pulsating in his chest, digging its ugly tentacles into his soul. The fever filled his mind, and he yanked the IV out, grabbed his cigarettes, pulled on his clothes, and shoved the nurses aside with extraordinary strength. Buzzers went off everywhere, and two guys dressed in white pants and jackets ran toward him.

"Look, Bill, this scar is getting red, but it should be getting white, losing blood, not gaining it."

Both morticians stared in amazement as the scar continued to get red, then purple, and at the same time, the smile on Paul's face began to fade. He was dead, for Christ's sake! What was happening?

Jack grabbed his head and began screaming at the top of his lungs. The headache was enormous, and his eyes ached horribly. The two men in white coats had him on the floor, and he welcomed the injection, even though it felt like a bullet ripping through him that put him out.

The mortuary shone brightly, neither mortician wanting to be in the same room with the corpse that seemed to be taking on a life of its own. Paul opened his eyes and began to laugh, blood oozing out of the scar.

Jack felt cold. Darkness filled his mind and he didn't remember what had happened over the past 24 hours. Nobody seemed to be talking to him, and they couldn't hear him either.

The morning headlines never mentioned the death of Paul Rayworth. Instead, it said Jack Hedwig, forty-six years old, was shot by Paul Rayworth on his way to his car early Monday morning.

The only physical evidence left behind were several cigarette butts on the ground.