You look into the mirror, violet eyes burning with hate. Just like the last time you looked. And all the times before that. Only this time, you are staring with the knowledge that this rage is not directed at yourself, as it usually is. No, this time, it is at him.

You scowl at the reflection, the man staring back at you with hollow eyes only fueling the burning pain in your soul. You know that it is this stranger in the glass that drove him away. The scars lacing up and down, the ones you used to love and admire, in your own perverse way, now disgust you, as they did him. The defined ribs, now so sharp and pronounced that they poke out through your thin, cotton tee-shirt, make you sick with repulsion, where once they were the sole cause of the bitter, albeit rare, smile on your face.

Suddenly, your face contorts, mouth twisting into a chilling grin, and you find it amusing that, combined with the hollow, cold look in your eyes, you look almost dead. Quite literally, a grinning corpse. You truly are Shinigami now, the God of Death. And you are about to claim your last victim.

Turning, you walk over to the CD player in the corner of your room, so lonely a place now that he is gone. The silence is maddening, but you know that the music now swelling through the air will make it even worse.

Funny how you once thought the song to be so beautiful. Ironic how the thing that once filled you with the most joy now fills you with so much hate, such bitter pain. Sick though it may be, you hope that it is he who finds you, cold and stiff, the song playing on repeat the only thing in the room with a pulse.

Shivering slightly at your morbid thoughts, you turn again to your thing of worship, the full-length mirror hanging on the wall. As the chorus repeats, you let out an animalistic cry of rage and raise a fist, connecting it with that lonely stranger in front of you. Suddenly, glass is embedded in your knuckles, jagged edges raining down on you, all of it is covered in that all-too-familiar crimson goo – the tears you cannot seem to shed in any other way. Looking downwards, you see a dozen pairs of amethyst eyes staring faithfully back up at you, and you think that this is the most realistic picture of yourself the mirror has ever shown you. Broken. The pieces scattered so far and wide that there is no hope of them ever fully mending again.

Bending down and selecting the sharpest piece, you swallow down the last remaining shred of doubt in your mind, and sink the jagged edge deep into your wrist. Letting it follow the path of convenient blue veins mapped out, seemingly just for this purpose, you remove the weapon only when you reach the bony elbow, and you can no longer see the flesh of your arm, so covered is it in the ruby mess.

You feel your body begin to weaken as suddenly your knees give out, and you giggle as you collapse to the floor with a heavy thud. The sharp edges of the glass are digging into your back painfully, and you find this funny, too. It seems only fitting that you die this way, in so much pain, both physical and emotional, after spending your whole life living the same way.

And as your vision starts to fade, shapes beginning to blur, colors retreating in favor of black, your ears pick up the last phrase of the song still playing in the background.

"Do you see the flowers?
Makes me wonder
Could it be much better
Our springtime song
lighting up my bedroom
this early friday afternoon"

Your eyes begin to sting with the suspicious sensation of tears, and for the first time in your life, you let them fall without shame. April Love. The first time he kissed you was only April sixth, and he thought it only fitting that this be your "song". Who would have guessed that he would be the sentimental type? You gave birth to a new life all those years ago, making love to him with these lyrics floating in the background…

And you are about to die in the same way.

Owari