Hall of Mirrors, or a mansplainer’s just desserts
Night enters, rudely awakening fear while light peeks tentatively from other rooms. Fate reaches for the one match still housed within its book, lone survivor of smoking years. Phosphorus flowers into flame, snatching at the candle. Vanquished, darkness slinks away.
Crimson splatters line the walls, crime scene tape girds the door. Shattered glass, a single lily, and pristine white shagpile carpet grace the floors. He lifts the needle, abruptly silencing the Shostakovitch piano concerto. Tipping back his trilby, he scratches his head. Who still uses a record player? Image credit: SouthernRebel/pixabay SaveSave SaveSave SaveSave