Fragments
Sometimes at night, when his alarm clock is flashing three digit numbers in bold green neon, Gary is painfully aware of that other presence in his mind. These moments, on the precipice of morning, are when his thoughts refuse to leave him be. Eventually, by the time the bright numbers have changed at least fifteen times, his own cacophonic thoughts drive him to roll quickly out of bed in order to do something - anything - to distract him.
Inevitably, his eyes fall on his roommate. Petey, or Femme-boy, as Gary insists upon calling him, never ceases to make the trainwreck of Gary's mind seem far-off for a single, blissful moment. Especially with the moonlight hitting his sleeping face and Petey, for once, not looking sullen or irritated with him.
But soon, his unwanted thoughts shove their way back into his brain. It feels utterly violating, like he's being raped, and he reels away from his roommate as quietly as possible, his hand clamped over his mouth because the sickening force of his own mind attacking him is almost too much. He never does manage to vomit, into the toilet or elsewhere, but God knows he wants to. Unable to work up even a gag, he ends up on his knees, staring into the bathroom mirror and willing himself to shut the fuck up.
Nights like these happen only when he's 'forgotten' to swallow a half-a-bottle of depressants and several other assorted, candy-colored, tasteless medications that his doctor says he needs.
But it's better than how he feels with the prescription drugs coursing through his system, so the pill bottles remain untouched in his bottom drawer.
Gary looks up at his own tired face in the mirror, feeling ill. It's like looking at another fucking person staring back at him, and he knows he must be tired, and he knows he must need those stupid pills for something, because his reflection glares angrily back at him and, in his own voice, informs him of how sick he really is.
I saw you looking at Petey, you sick pervert. Wish you were under the covers with your little boyfriend?
"...No." Gary croaks. His expression is tired, but the mirror-image Gary is sneering at him. Vaguely, Gary wonders if Petey feels this way when Gary taunts him.
Don't lie, hypocrite. I know everything. We know everything.
It's more difficult than it should be to tell his own voice to shut up, so Smith says nothing, just curls his body tighter over the counter. Mirror Gary's dark eyes glint dangerously.
There. Be at peace with what you are, pervert. He mocked, Ohh, Femme-boy, touch me there again!
"S-...Shut up!"
Yeah, I bet he'd love that-
"Be quiet, you idiot. Shut up right now!"
You fucking him-
"You don't know what you're talking about!"
And he'd probably let you, because he's scared of you. And you want to break him you sick-
"Stop it."
Perverted-
"You're the liar!"
Fuck!
"SHUT UP! I'm not doing that to him!"
Oh. Oh, that's too good. Mirror Gary has the audacity to look amused. His upper lip curls. You love him. You pathetic sack of crap. You moron! He's a liability, remember, brainless?
With an angry, pained snarl, Gary lunges towards the mirror. Blood and glass go flying, a billion little rainbow fragments, but all he knows is the hard scrape of the mirror's surface against his clenched-white knuckles as he aims to tear Mirror Gary's face apart. Shards of himself flutter, cutting into his skin. Tiny flecks of red form spots on Gary's undershirt.
"I'll kill you, I'll kill you!" He is growling, over and over, and it's now a meaningless mantra of hatred towards himself - the him in the mirror. There is a blinding pain flooding into his body through his eye, spreading, but he can't feel it any longer - he can't think. He claws at the mirror and howls, "I want you to die, you fucking liar, die!"
By the time Peter is woken by his roommate's wounded-animal yelps and has locked his arms around Gary's in order to pull him, struggling viciously, away from the mirror, blood is dripping onto the bathroom linoleum from Gary's brow and the mirror is in a thousand pieces of pieces. Petey is panting and white as a sheet, covered in the scarlet oozing from Gary's knuckles.
He shatters, exactly like glass, lets out a bark-like sob and clenches Petey's shirt in his fingers. He buries his face in Petey's neck, staining his pajama top. Petey hesitates before lifting his hand to smooth Gary's shirt along his back; it's like he's petting a rabid dog.
"Gary... Gary, your eye." Petey says gently, and Gary, his head now clear, can feel the white-hot pain in his left eye. The bump of a serrated sliver of glass meets his fingers when he raises them to his eyebrow.
"Fuck," Gary mutters. His hands are shaking, too unstable for him to grip the shard. "Pull it out, Petey."
Petey gives him a terrified look. "I-I can't... Gary, I can't-"
"Pull it out, you fucking girl, it hurts!" He knows he must sound just as stunned and afraid as Petey does.
Trembling, Petey grasps the glass between his fingers and pulls. Gary grunts through his clenched teeth, but it doesn't hurt as much as he was dreading. From the feel of it, the glass has scratched him all the way to his cheek, but the pain is distant, like he's watching a bad movie.
Petey still looks horror-struck.
"Well?" Gary yells, pushing himself off of the younger boy. "Get me a towel or something, useless."
Petey scrambles to his feet and out of the bathroom, his hands still quivering uncertainly. He comes back a moment later, a fluffy, dark towel clenched in his hands. He is also carrying Gary's medicine. Gary berates Femme-boy some more for his efforts ("What are you, my mother?"), and downs his dosage with a wince.
He waits until Petey is done picking up his mirror fragments before whispering a thank you.
Petey just tosses the shards into the trash without a word.