The Glass Eats the Bone

When the mirror forgets to reflect

The smell of the workshop is not decay. It is the sharp, metallic tang of ammonia and the sweet, cloying rot of camphor, a scent that sits on the back of the tongue like a copper coin. Elias stands before the workbench, his hands resting on the cold steel surface. The light from the overhead lamp is white and unforgiving, stripping the color from everything it touches. On the table lies a heron, its feathers preened into a sleek, aerodynamic curve. The bird is already stiff, its neck arched in a permanent, silent cry. Elias picks up a needle threaded with gut. He does not look at the bird’s eye. He looks at his own hand.

The skin on his knuckles has taken on a strange, translucent quality. It is no longer the warm, porous flesh of a man who has lived forty years. It is becoming something else. Something preserved. He remembers the first time he noticed it. A month ago, perhaps. He had been washing his hands in the sink, scrubbing with the harsh soap that strips the natural oils from the skin. When he pulled his hands free, the water had beaded on his fingertips, rolling off like mercury. He had thought it was the soap. He had not thought it was the skin itself repelling the water, rejecting the life that requires moisture.

Now, the stiffness has spread to his wrists. He moves his fingers, and they click, a dry, wooden sound. There is no pain. Pain is a signal of damage, of living tissue reacting to injury. This is not injury. This is completion. He feels a strange calm, a bureaucratic satisfaction in the way his joints lock into place. He is becoming efficient. He is becoming permanent.

He turns to the display case. Inside, the specimens are arranged in a diorama of a wetland. The heron, the egret, the kingfisher. They are frozen in moments of action, suspended in the amber of amber. Elias looks at the heron and sees the curve of its neck. He looks at his own neck and sees the same curve. He has been posing for them. He has been studying the angle of the head, the tension in the shoulder, the way the light catches the feather. He has been practicing for this.

He picks up the needle again. The gut thread is thin, almost invisible. He needs to stitch the heron’s wing to its body. His hand moves with a precision that is no longer entirely his own. It is the precision of the tool, the precision of the machine. He inserts the needle into the bird’s skin. The resistance is slight. The skin gives way, then holds. He pulls the thread tight. The wing settles into place.

He looks at his hand. The skin is now as smooth and unblemished as the bird’s feathers. There are no pores. There are no lines. There is only the surface, the perfect, unchanging surface. He feels an urge to move, to run, to scream. But the urge is distant, muffled by the layers of preservation. He is not afraid. He is complete.

He walks to the display case. He opens the glass door. The air inside is still, cold, and dry. He places his hand inside. The glass is cold against his palm. He presses his palm against the glass. The glass presses back. He is part of the exhibit now. He is the final specimen.

He closes the door. The click of the latch is the sound of a lock. He stands there, watching the heron. He watches himself. The light from the lamp reflects in his eyes, two dark, still pools. He does not blink. He cannot blink.