Scared is different from terrified.
Joyful is different from ecstatic.
Sadness is different from depression.
Like is different from love.
And, lastly, wounds are different from death.
This is what I came to conclusion as I stared down at the figure below me. I had no idea who or even what it was, or how I even ended up here. There was no point in dawdling of what might have happened before—all I knew now was that I was bloody, my arms were scratched, my whole body was quivering, and my heart was beating. I could hear each little flutter of life pounding against my chest almost achingly, as if reminding me, "Yes, yes, you won. You didn't die. You won."
And it's the difference between my wounds and this person's death that made me rethink everything about my life. Both our pain wasn't the same. Because I still ached, and every step was a stab itself, my pain still held a sharp, almost deadly little smug sense of victory. And this person's pain... It went by so quick that this person was already comforting itself in the clutches of death.
My vision was blurry. All I could make out was the twisted, morbid face of the person, the ground drowned in crimson, the metallic scent sprayed over the air. I stumbled back, breathing heavily, and I felt as though I was . . . holding something in my left hand. Immediately, I tried to relax my hand, and the unknown object slipped from my fingers, falling to the floor with a clang! I noticed a scarlet flash of metal, but soon enough I was running away from the scene, pushing past the frightening shadows that loomed over me. The world was spinning. Colors of red and blue flashed behind me, along with a deafening roar of a siren. The streetlights were dimming, and each step was still so unbearably painful, like fire licking along my skin. The burning continued... And continued... And...
C
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Cold sweat is what I woke up to, along with my screams which seemed to be even louder than my alarm clock next to me. I immediately quieted myself, hearing the soft pants that escaped my lips. Flickering my eyes to the ringing alarm clock, I shut it off and slowly, very slowly, sat up from my small bed and looked down at my chest. No blood. No wound. No scar.
I rationalized that my memory last night was a dream.
Which did make sense. It'd be more than silly to actually think that I was wandering around in the middle of the night. Besides, all I could remember was blood and the strangest feeling of victory. Why I felt that victory, I had no idea.
Soon enough, I fell into my usual morning routine—brush teeth, comb hair, get dressed, have breakfast, and study any last-minute materials that I needed to review for a test. It was soon becoming December, and I, along with the rest of the sophomores in my class, were becoming accustomed to the simple but almost dull cycle of school.
And that blurry nightmare was soon tossed into the disposal been along with my lost appetite.
The morning was chilly and crisp, but not a single flake of snow fell from the sky. A dry winter day, just the way I preferred; that way, there was no need to ride a noisy bus on an icy road which my bicycle couldn't handle. I could be alone. As I usually am.
As I bicycled, I'd occasionally focus on the warm cloud that conjured up from each breath I exhaled. In a way, I was almost mesmerized, but it wasn't like I haven't done this before. Sometimes it was fun to amuse my mind in simple ways.
I suppose it helped take my thoughts off more complicated things.
High school is not some Korean drama. Or Chinese drama. Or Japanese drama. No, hardly ever is it a harem anime in my case, nor is it a lovey-dovey place with romance and cheating and all of that "juicy" drama.
For me, high school means learning. Learning is life. And, if you think of it like that, wouldn't that mean high school is life as well? And anime and drama is not the same as life.
Some people use high school as an excuse to do stupid things. Things that won't make your present progress. And if present stops, then there will never be a future.
Sometimes I wish people would understand this, but how would they figure it out if I never say?
Quietness is a gift as well as a curse; it lets me be able to notice everything and take in wisdom, but what's the point if there's no one to share it with?
No one would ever ask me, bookworm Kiku Honda, about anything.
Unless if it has to do with an upcoming test or homework.
But there is so much more things I'm capable of than just schoolwork.
The school building towers over the campus like a castle, with flags of all kinds and colors proudly waving through the air. The worn walls and pillars seem to oblivious to the cold wind blowing, and the old, icy snow on the ground seems to sparkle in the pale light of the early morning. Though it feels like any other boring Monday morning, I can't help but wonder if the school is trying to act as if nothing happened a few weeks ago.
Though I don't remember the memory much thanks to a horrible headache which sent me home, I do remember the bustle of rumors spreading across the school like a wildfire the next day. It reached to social groups from all types, such as the jocks to the musicians and to, well, me.
Gilbert Beilschmidt was dead from murder, and, according to the rumor, the perpetrator was someone from the school.
It's been weeks, but the staff had cleaned up the little "incident" as if it was nothing. Apparently, Gilbert's death was due to overexerting himself. We all knew that the albino had a rather bad immune system and regularly got sick, but we never would've guessed that he would've actually pushed himself over the limit. But even if it was murder... Who saw it?
My train of thought was suddenly cut off when I heard a roar of an engine next to me. I looked over and blinked at the person inside the lame excuse for a car; it was a grinning upperclassman—Alfred, I remember his name being? I was pretty sure. He was in some of my classes, actually, since my honor classes were regular classes for those older than me.
"Kiku!" he called with a lopsided smile. "Did ya finish the homework for science? Dude, it was like, friggin' hard, man! Like, how the McNuggets am I s'pposed ta know howda do number seventeen in the textbook! Miss Giligans sure didn't go over it!"
He blabbered, and I simply nodded in agreement—that's what I usually did. But I could hear a little voice inside my head, hissing and sneering comebacks.
You could always use the internet and figure out how to do it instead of watching Youtube videos all day.
Hard problems? Ha! They were easier than kindergarten work.
Miss Giligans did go over the homework, moron—you just weren't paying attention.
I tried to push out the mean words out of my mind, but the sneering voice would just continue, no matter how much I strained not to listen to it.
"Helllooooooo?! Are ya even listenin'?! Do ya think you can help me for last night's homework during lunch? Kiku? Ya there? Earth to Kiku!" Alfred's voice was bringing me back down to reality again.
"U-uh, yes, of course, do not worry about it," I murmured, nodding to myself just as the voice faded away. Whether Alfred heard my answer or not, he grinned and just assumed that I agreed anyway.
He waved before rolling off with a loud, "Thanks, dude! Owe ya a solid!"
I watched the car move off with a cloud of smoke and dust, looking at the side mirror. It was cracked, and though it was in the perfect angle so I'd be looking at myself, I. . .
I saw a stranger with red eyes staring back at me instead.
Author's Note:
Hello, and thank you for reading "Broken Mirror"! This is my first fanfiction on here, so if anyone could constructively criticize anything in this story, that'd be extremely helpful! I'll try my best to update at least once a week. My schedule's rather busy, so I apologize in advance. I'll also attempt to keep each chapter consistent in length as well. Thank you! And please, if you liked the story, please favorite/follow or send a review!