A/N: Let me just say that this is a rather pointless thing that wrote itself while I was doing the dishes. It's rather dark, and a little confusing, but I kind of like it. I waited a long time before posting it, because I kind of forgot it existed. Uhh....whoops.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Nope. Nothing. Zip, zero, nada, null. Okay, so I own some clothes and a pair of underwear, but nothing else. Bye!

Shatter

Steam rises. Water falls. Soap bubbles shadow the sink bottom, small pieces of dirty food floating through the once-clear water. Hands clean unseeingly, methodically, clinking plates together with delicate movements. The water burns, prickling my skin with its scalding heat.

My hands, my water, my plates, their filthy food. Disgusting, really, even nauseating at times. The water was so perfect, the plates sparkling. They soiled it all with their vulgar food. Unidentifiable scraps brush against my hands, causing the bile to rise in my throat. I suppress the gag reflex quickly. It's not hard.

I focus my mind on another task as my hands scrub a bowl clean in the decrepit water. The plate on the counter near me rises to float towards the trashcan. The lid lifts, the plate is overturned, spilling the wasted food into the container with a sickening plop. I feel nauseous again. I hate this chore. I hate food. No wonder I am so skinny.

"Please mama, I'm so hungry..."

The plate floats back to me and lands in the soapy, mucky water. Searching hands find it quickly, rubbing the filth off of it with gentle circular motions. I could easily do this chore without my hands, using the power I was cursed with, but the motions are almost therapeutic, the pricking sensation of the burning water pleasurable. Perhaps I am a masochist at heart.

"Stop mama, it hurts!"

I reach my hands through the slimy sink, finally grabbing the chain for the plug. The water drains slowly, and I watch it swirl down, leaving the filth of the food behind like a shed skin. I suppose that is an accurate metaphor. The water is free now, leaving its dirty life behind to find a new, cleaner purpose. Sometimes I wonder if I wish I could do the same. Sometimes I confuse myself with thoughts.

"Look, mama! I can move the cup just by thinking!"

The dishes line up so perfectly in their rack, shining once again as they dry. I leave them behind as I exit the kitchen, heading for the darkened sanctuary that is my room. Schuldig's nasal voice assaults me as I pass by the couch.

"Done with the dishes, bishounen?" he calls tauntingly, slurring the word into an insult.

"Don't call me that," I reply in monotone, not even bothering to stop. It's useless, I know. He calls me that no matter what I say, and I'm not quite sure why I let him. My elder brother used to call me that, slurring it the same way as he leered at me. The last time he did it, I put his head through the TV screen. Of course, my mother went out the window next.

"I'm sorry mama! I won't do it again I promise! Please mama, don't lock me in here again, I don't want to die!"

The glow of my computer comforts me as I reach my room. I don't bother to flip on the lights. I hate the lights. The door shuts behind me, locking with a single thought. I turn towards the dresser, only to find myself staring into a pair of dark blue eyes. Dead eyes, I think, devoid of all emotion. I lean in closer towards the mirror, examining the boy I see peering at me from the other side. On second thought, his eyes aren't quite dead. There is still something there, perhaps, a small glimmer of hope for a different future, a different life. A hope that someday he can shed the filth of this life like dirty dishwater.

I pity him, the boy in the mirror. Life would be so much easier for him if he would just give up hope. Give in to the unbeatable truth. There is no hope, there is no different future, there is only this. The harsh reality, where children sell themselves for money and we kill for it.

Its funny, though. I feel sorry for him, yet I can see in his eyes that he pities me.

The mirror cracks with a harsh sound, the image of the boy becoming distorted like the fantasy of a different life.

I don't need pity.