Yo Te Quiero Oh Mi Corazon
When you stand before a mirror, it can reveal a multitude of things. Consider a modern mirror: illuminated by built-in LED lights, framed in crisp lines, and so pristine it seems as if it was just crafted. The glass reflects an image in perfect clarity, presenting you in all your surface brilliance—almost as if your reverse self has been summoned for close inspection. Even if you feel worn or believe your best days have passed, the person gazing back appears devoid of doubt, the mirror’s objectivity lending an illusion that all is well. Its unfeeling glass allows this detached certainty.
Now, imagine swapping that new mirror for a vintage one. This mirror, its glass dulled and mottled with age, wears corrosion along its silvered back—a visible patina of history. Its battered frame and tarnished edges seem to whisper stories of every soul that has stood before it, each mark a subtle testimony to time’s passage. When you look into this weathered glass, do you see a truer version of yourself—the one not brightly illuminated, but honest and unvarnished? The chips in its silvering might even feel like blemishes on your spirit, melanoma of the soul, flaws hidden from others but all too visible to you in that moment.
If you could easily switch between these mirrors, which would you choose to face? The shiny, reassuring reflection of the new or the honest, timeworn truth of the old? Which version—the polished or the flawed—would you truly want the world to see?
Just as our reflection in the mirror reveals different facets of ourselves, so too does our ability to create life reflect something profound about our nature. It's said that God created man in his own image—putting aside the obvious misogyny in that phrase, the logic leads to an intriguing thought: by standing before a mirror, you replicate the act of creation, generating an image from your own being. If you step away, that image disappears, suggesting your reflection only exists through your presence. In a similar way, when a person brings a new life into the world, whether intentionally or by chance, they are taking part in a creative act that echoes the divine. Just as an artist breathes life into a blank canvas, shaping color and form from nothing, so does a parent shape a new existence, each act resonating with the impulse to create that is often attributed to the divine. To create is, in a sense, to become a god in your own right, leaving a mark on the world that outlasts your fleeting presence.
But if the vessel for your creation is suddenly gone—if your chance to create or shape is stripped from you—what then? Does it spark a desire for revenge, a need to rail against the forces that denied you your opportunity for godhood? Or do you hide your pain behind the polished surface of a new mirror, letting the flawed, cankered self, languish unseen? In the end, which face—the shiny mask or the vulnerable truth—will you offer to those you love, and does that choice truly make a difference?
*****
I kiss you, you’re beautiful.
Tina, or to use her soon to be reinstated title, Senior Executive Officer Rawson, was sick of her luck, she was sick of being lucky and getting away with stuff from her past, she was also sick of being what she deemed to be the unluckiest, shit upon human she knew. Unless you discounted Emma Surtees, who had just been unlucky enough to know and share the bed of Tina, and was now wired up to who the fuck knew what, and was in a permanent state of drug fuelled immobility and insensibility.
This whole metaphysical debate had been created as a result of that phone call and the god-awful sirens. It all came down to one simple fact, was there anything actually that was luck, or was it just some karmic throw down that messed with your head, your life and anyone who had the misfortune to be near you at the time.
She would think about this a lot, a new period of her life, one where she had been suddenly removed from a comfortable and happy place and thrown into yet another world of worry and pain. That day had started so well, as most had since Emma had moved in, a natural rhythm, a love driven symbiosis of two beings that had found their accepted place. The last thing a kiss for a beautiful blonde fiancé, who was on her way to work at the local medical centre, Tina had smiled at her and had been left to her caffeine absorption process.
When Andy Moorhouse had called her, with a hitch in his voice, telling her of the accident, her first instinct, as she was sure was the case for anyone, was denial. She had only kissed Emma, her beautiful Emma, goodbye fifteen minutes ago. Emma, who had been full of human emanated sunshine and who had illuminated everything and everyone she touched. Not that Tina gave a hump about anyone else. Emma was permanently in her life and the change for Tina was bordering on the miraculous.
Andy had cut through her denial, telling her in no uncertain terms to get her backside down to the scene, as it was not good. This had jarred into Tina’s brain, if Andy was saying it was bad then as a copper, he meant she could be badly injured or worse, dying. This just could not be happening, she was walking to work at the medical centre, for crying out loud in a quiet Dales market town. It was sunny and dry, she was always careful, so how could she have been in an accident. Tina – that would be an entirely different story, she had inherent risks in her job and also a sort of laissez-faire attitude to danger, until recently that is.
Accident also meant that there was someone there who had done this, that meant she could move from denial to anger in one swift and probably ill-considered step. Forgetting her place in this town and the surrounding community she could extract revenge.
She was already dressed and ready for the day, having shared a leisurely early morning exploring the more invigorating and pleasant parts of this new relationship, and breakfast. Then this, twenty minutes at most had gone by. She ran, which was worthy of comment, as Tina didn’t do running. This was a charity run for Emma, she did not want to think of her leaving or anything like that. Tina didn’t notice the weather; she didn’t notice the backed-up and stationary traffic on a road that was normally free-flowing. She paid no heed the pedestrians, some of whom she probably knew, she just ran, and ran, and ran.
Then she was no longer running, she had come to an abrupt halt as the not inconsiderable unit that was Andy Moorhouse, tried to restrain her. Which was either very brave or incredibly stupid. An emergency ambulance was slewed across the road, shielding the action from those that were gathering. Two police Ford Rangers were also haphazardly parked. Andy was the owner of one, and Sandy Macreadie was pushing the onlookers back in her inimitable way, which would have been funny had Tina had time to consider it. Shouting at people in a Glaswegian accent and flapping her arms a lot, well it was fairly comical. Tina did not care at the time, but she knew there would be someone at the other side doing a similar Sandy type of thing.
