Window to the Soul

by Annalia Hopper

I pull the thick needle through the folds of my love’s skin. Her hands. Her arms. Her legs. Bit by bit, I make Diana whole again. As I work, I avoid looking at the empty sockets where her eyes once resided and the bruises around her neck where I squeezed until she stopped breathing. In the corner of my vision, I can see the animals in my workshop slowly coming to life, restlessly rattling against their glass cases or wooden mounts.

The day I met Diana, it was like they all started looking back at me. Every once and awhile, I would turn my head and catch a glimpse of movement; the twitch of a still raccoon’s tail or the almost unnoticeable flutter of the hummingbird’s wings. Since bringing Diana home, my creations have grown more feral. At first, I thought they were excited, but then they started growling.

Don’t they understand that I can remake Diana even better than before, in my own image, like Christ himself. Life begins and ends in the eyes. Passed from son to son, the secret of the best taxidermists isn’t flesh-colored thread or non-iodized salt. No, it’s in the eyes. Plastic eyes are plastic eyes; cold and directionless. The secret is mirrors. When you put them behind the glass, you can see the animal’s soul. They move. They follow you. They live again.

I remembered Diana’s eyes when I saw her for the first time at the diner. I don’t remember if it was raining or sunny or foggy, but I remembered her eyes, brown and warm like the coffee she served.

Now, as I put the prosthetics into the fleshy orbits, my stomach twists. It isn’t the same. Before, when she smiled, her eyes would crinkle at the corner as she asked, would you like some sugar, sugar? It was the look that made me certain she felt the same. She was just shy, like me. But now, Diana looks straight ahead: cold, unblinking.

Behind me, the animals howl. The raccoon’s claws scratch against their wooden stands. The deer heads mounted to the wall butt antlers. The bear growls in warning. The scissors in my hand snip through the thread to my skin, leaving a trail of blood.

I turn around and give my creations the same stern look my father gave me when I misbehaved. The mirrors give the animals the appearance of winking back at me.

“Don’t listen,” I tell Diana. “They’re just jealous.” I stroke her cold cheek. Diana stares up at the ceiling, refusing to look at me.

Just out of view, a red fox snarls. I stand and stroke her fur. The fox glares back at me in a way it never has, squinting like she smells something foul. I pull my hand away before my creation bites. I stare at them all. Eyes wide.

“I made you,” I say through my teeth. “I made all of you.”

The workshop hums in response; a chorus of clawing and growling and bleating. The fox’s eyes narrow. It thrashes against its stand. I slowly back away. Cold hands grab my wrists, holding me in place. I turn to find my love, but when I look into her eyes, all I see is my reflection. The animals roar as they free themselves from their pedestals and swarm.