A/n: Another random Vincentric fic
Behind Every Good Man
I despise mirrors. If ever you should happen to look inside a room I have stayed in, whether it be for one night or several, you will notice that there are no mirrors. I immediately remove them from my sight. Sometimes I calmly set them down somewhere, in a corner or a closet. I take the utmost care never to glance into the smooth surface as I set them aside. But sometimes, just sometimes, I catch a quick glimpse of myself. It may be the briefest of glances, but it is enough, and I stare in entranced horror at my otherworldly visage.
I see the sleek, dark hair. Once kept trimmed and neat, now long and unruly as it cascades in ebony falls past my shoulders. I see the deathlike pallor of one who has so long been denied the light. But one such as I was never meant to live in the sun. I do not deserve such a privilege.
The thing that mesmerizes me most, however, are my eyes. They were once an ordinary color, in a time long forgotten, when I had a life. I no longer remember what color they were. Now they are a deep, crimson shade. The color of blood. The blood I have shed. They are my punishment, the mark I bear for my sins. I cannot help but look at myself when I see them, they hold a morbid fascination that enthralls me. When this happens, you are more likely to find my room strewn with shattered glass. I cannot bear to look at what I have become for long, not without losing control.
Perhaps I should rephrase that. Not with out giving up my control. The little humanity I possess is handed over. The man steps back into the recesses of the mind, and the demon comes forth. When I look into my own eyes, they are all I see. They are always with me. Lurking in the shadows, taunting, tempting. Tempting me to just let them out, just for a little while.
Sometimes, I give in. In the heat of battle perhaps. You will look over and see not the red-cloaked man, but the monster. And when victory comes, my humanity returns, slowly, but surely. It is always hard to regain control after they have been released. Every time it becomes harder. One day I fear I will not be able to take my own mind back from them.
So I hide myself, from the prying, searching eyes of others, from my own eyes. The eyes, they say, are the window to the soul. My soul is tainted with blood and suffering, and so my eyes reflect this; in their color, in the shadows that swirl within them. The mirrors are covered, broken, avoided at all costs.
Because behind every good man, lurks a demon. And mine are more real than you will ever know.
Behind Every Good Man
I despise mirrors. If ever you should happen to look inside a room I have stayed in, whether it be for one night or several, you will notice that there are no mirrors. I immediately remove them from my sight. Sometimes I calmly set them down somewhere, in a corner or a closet. I take the utmost care never to glance into the smooth surface as I set them aside. But sometimes, just sometimes, I catch a quick glimpse of myself. It may be the briefest of glances, but it is enough, and I stare in entranced horror at my otherworldly visage.
I see the sleek, dark hair. Once kept trimmed and neat, now long and unruly as it cascades in ebony falls past my shoulders. I see the deathlike pallor of one who has so long been denied the light. But one such as I was never meant to live in the sun. I do not deserve such a privilege.
The thing that mesmerizes me most, however, are my eyes. They were once an ordinary color, in a time long forgotten, when I had a life. I no longer remember what color they were. Now they are a deep, crimson shade. The color of blood. The blood I have shed. They are my punishment, the mark I bear for my sins. I cannot help but look at myself when I see them, they hold a morbid fascination that enthralls me. When this happens, you are more likely to find my room strewn with shattered glass. I cannot bear to look at what I have become for long, not without losing control.
Perhaps I should rephrase that. Not with out giving up my control. The little humanity I possess is handed over. The man steps back into the recesses of the mind, and the demon comes forth. When I look into my own eyes, they are all I see. They are always with me. Lurking in the shadows, taunting, tempting. Tempting me to just let them out, just for a little while.
Sometimes, I give in. In the heat of battle perhaps. You will look over and see not the red-cloaked man, but the monster. And when victory comes, my humanity returns, slowly, but surely. It is always hard to regain control after they have been released. Every time it becomes harder. One day I fear I will not be able to take my own mind back from them.
So I hide myself, from the prying, searching eyes of others, from my own eyes. The eyes, they say, are the window to the soul. My soul is tainted with blood and suffering, and so my eyes reflect this; in their color, in the shadows that swirl within them. The mirrors are covered, broken, avoided at all costs.
Because behind every good man, lurks a demon. And mine are more real than you will ever know.