He walks toward me. I press my hand against the looking glass, hold my breath as he draws nearer.

Anthony squeezes the tube of styling gel, catches a stream in his right hand. He clasps both hands together, rubs yellowish cream into his palms. Taking a step back, works the goo into his scalp. Then almost lovingly, combs his short dark hair.

Leaning closer, he examines his face, makes sure his moustache is trimmed to perfection--seems to look into my eyes. I hold my breath, touch the glass on my side of the mirror, and revel in his beauty.

He can't see me, or peer into my surroundings. He can’t hear my sighs each night as fire consumes me.

I know every detail of his world of flesh. I've memorized each layer of paint on the canvases hanging over his bed, his cherry wood dresser and bureau. His masterpieces created after furious lovemaking--paintings of a lovely woman, dark, naked, her hands covered with blood.

Every book in his bookcase is etched in my mind. The curves, and patterns of the tiny surrealistic sculptures on the table I know by heart. I know the way his floor sloops in the middle of the room; the zebra print bedspread, the matching curtains that billow like dancing ghosts when the windows are open. I've memorized the bloodstains on the cream loveseat--the small splatter on the left arm, the heart-shaped stain on the headrest--all of them.

He kills his victims on that loveseat, after having hard, rough sex with them. Sometimes he slits their throats quickly. Other times he plays with them, cutting slowly, finding pleasure in their screams.

Now I watch as he gazes at a photograph. He always takes pictures of them in his studio before he invites them here.

I imagine him aiming his camera, coaxing a woman to slip her blouse a tad off her shoulders, to raise her skirt a few inches higher. I know in the end he persuades her to take off all her clothes. All the photographs are of nude women--beautiful women only days, or hours, away from death.

"Not quite--she's not what I'm looking for," he whispers as he tears the photograph to shreds. He closes his eyes, dreams of a woman--dark, haunted, waiting for the blood to set her free--to bring her to him. He sees orange flames for a split second, smiles as the faint odor of smoke fills his nostrils.

I live on the other side of the mirror--Anthony Alberti's mirror. I've been in love with him since his grandmother gave him this mirror for a birthday present, some ten years ago. She found it in an antique shop on Talbot's Bay. The shopkeeper told her it once belonged to a cult of magicians. It once was believed to possess magic. It would bring great power to its owner. Always intrigued by such things, the old woman scooped it up, gave it to Anthony for his twenty-fifth birthday.

I watch Anthony day after day--infatuated with him--the way he moves--speaks--murders so ruthlessly.

The first time Anthony peered into the glass, I saw passion in his eyes, dark desire; a thirst needing to be quenched. I want to flee from my world, walk on the same wooden floor he walks on each day. It would be exquisite to rest my head on his chest as he dreams. I’d be bound to his world if I could taste the blood of his victims. I’d be set free from my prison of darkness--of fire.

I watch him from the moment he rises from bed. I know each step, and gesture--all his habits. A redhead arrives, dressed in a tight black jumpsuit--the last woman he photographed. He offers her wine, kisses her tenderly on the lips, motions for her to sit on his loveseat.

He stands over her, slowly unzips the front of her jumpsuit, and kisses her again. Gently he pushes he down, takes a knife from beneath the pillow, and tears her clothes to shreds. At first she seems excited, protesting, "Hey, that outfit cost me a hundred bucks, you gonna reimburse me?"

"Yeah," he says, as he spreads her legs apart, takes her roughly, with no foreplay, no emotion.

He climaxes quickly, clasping his hands around her neck. She struggles, begins to cry. Then slowly, slowly, he cuts her--hours pass--the scent of blood permeates the air, her screams muffled by the CD player. Blood flows freely as Guns and Roses, sing November Rain.

He fills a champagne glass with her blood, drinks heartily, then staggers to the mirror--to me. He dips his index finger into red liquid. He smears it over his lips, his cheeks, onto the glass.

It seeps through the mirror, slowly to me. I lap up trickling drops with my tongue. And as he turns, quickly gathering a large plastic bag beneath his bed, a cleaver, I press my hand against the glass.

Unlike other times there is no barrier to stop me. I can feel the air in his world. I can easily extend my fingers without restraint. Lifting my leg I step over the wooden frame, onto Anthony's floor.

He spins around suddenly, sees me there.

"Who are you?"

I turn and face the mirror, see a naked woman, raven hair framing my face, dark eyes peering back at me--Anthony's eyes.

"The blood brought me here--"

He takes a step closer, the cleaver still in his hand.

I move, like an agile cat, furious, filled with lust. Landing on him, I knock him to the floor, press my lips to his, pry his mouth open. I plunge my tongue down his throat. The cleaver flies from his hand upon impact.

"It's you." he cries as I straddle him, ride him rough, hard, like he did to all his victims. As we both scream, blood curdling--we are one.

Infatuation.

Gazing into the mirror, we see reflections of what we've become-- our beauty blazing like the fires of Hell--promising us life ever after. Then, as we slip into night, into a world where victims wait for our touch, he whispers...