The Knife and The Mirror

That reflection. That utterly abhorrent reflection, always staring back. Piercing deep within my eyes, falling further within the blackness of my pupil, crawling into my mind with nervous apprehension. The outline of this physical existence breaking light from between the mirror and the wall, warping this reality. I watch the blood pumping from the common through the external, then finding a bifurcated place to hide within. The pulse is slow and steady, yet my hands tremble. The tip of the blade is clearly seen from the mirrors edge, welcoming and cold.

I shut my eyes, and see the blade's edge kiss my flesh, severing it from itself, releasing my crimson soul. I see my soul splash upon floor and sink, showing utter disregard for it's destination. My eyes open again, and at once I am transported back, standing in front of this reflection. The sharpened features, the scarred and discolored flesh, an absolute abomination in every way. The peppering of grey among the jet black mane, the stress made into physical markers.

I shut my eyes, and see the blade's edge bless my flesh, from shoulder to chest, exposing my heart and lungs. Such paltry flesh, such tender morsels, clutched together like frightened birds in a cage, spasming out of sheer terror of the light emanating from the outside world, too bright to allow any understanding. My eyes slowly open, and I stand in front of this reflection once again, and now it's smiling. Smiling at the thought of watching the soul seep from this mortal vessel, unto the ground and returned to mother earths warm embrace. Those murky brown eyes squinted ever so slightly in devilish thought.

What could he possibly see that I cannot? What could he possibly understand that I do not? How could he ever believe that we are not equal in our endeavor?

His hand reaches out towards mine, and I see that they are battered and worn, as are his arms, cut and torn from years of fighting. His shoulders, rubbed raw from carrying the burden of a thousand lives and lies. Every inch of his flesh discolored and dry, seeming to almost flake away at the weight of my eyes upon it. A sudden rush of adrenaline causes our eyes to meet again, and I see where his hand has gone. It was never meant to reach out to mine, but to reach toward the blade upon the sill. I look deep into his eyes and see his true intention, to bless that which is so beautiful, to destroy the beauty of this gift, to see this soul drained from its clay warrior. He flashes a smile, and somehow it floods me with a serene feeling of release. The burdens slide from his shoulders, his skin clears and becomes almost fluid. The grey disappears amidst the jet black of his mane, his smile drifts from his mouth. His eyes lose their fire, and he staggers ever so slightly, gripping the porcelain edges of the sink feverishly. His lips part just long enough to pantomime a scream, yet no sound ever enters my ears.

He drifts to the floor, eyes darting wildly in terror, the soul pouring from his neck and chest, cursed by gravity to ever fall towards the earth, the very same earth that created every molecule of his being. The light bends less and less as he falls from sight.

My eyes lose focus and he falls from my vantage point, and a swirling feeling overcomes me. I lose my vision for just a moment as the universe engulfs my every atom.

As I return, I look up to see another standing there. This individual is vastly different than the one before. Our eyes meet, and they extend a kind aura to me. They comfort my every ache and pain and anxious thought. Their hands caress every inch of tattered flesh, bringing life to it once again. The voice is soft and distant, yet somewhat greater in every second that passes...

It's becoming deafening, and quickly becoming intelligible.

My eyes slowly open, and see where the blade's edge has torn my flesh. The mirror seems a million miles above. The sink a rosy pink with accents of the original white skirting every streak and spot, the ceiling still pure as driven snow. The light bends around her frame, the very physical frame that carries her soul, the frame that bends the light and stops it from reaching the ceiling. Her eyes leaking anger and relief, her hands holding the open edges of the lacerated flesh, staving off the crimson stream.

I lie there, in my own blood, and all I can see is the hurt in her eyes as I attempted to fool that terrible and arrogant bastard in the mirror. The next fucking time I'll show him what I truly meant to do.