Author Note: Hi everybody! This is my first fanfiction so cut me some slack if it's bad ok? I wanted to write something angsty and this is what I got. It's set a little after the King of Swords arc. Well, read and enjoy!
The blood was all over his hands. Why wouldn't the blood come off?
Hisoka closed his eyes and prayed to God that when he opened them the blood would not be there.
When he opened his eyes again tears poured down his face. The blood was still there. Her blood, Tsubaki's blood.
Hisoka squeezed his eyes shut and put his hands over his ears. He was hearing everything over that had happened over and over again.
In the back of his mind Hisoka realized how pathetic he must've looked. Here he was in his bathroom, curled up in the corner and crying like a baby.
He clenched his hands tighter over his ears in a desperate and futile attempt to stop all the noise.
He heard Tsubaki praising her dear doctor, even after he had used her and than thrown her away like a toy. He heard Tsubaki begging him to kill her. And he heard the gunshot. The horrible, horrible gunshot.
Hisoka looked down at his hands again. He had washed them a while ago, but the blood was still there.
He stood up, went over to the sink, and washed his hands again, hoping they would be clean.
When he finished he looked back down at his hands. Hisoka didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The blood was still there, it would always be there wouldn't it?
"A copy can't beat the original," Muraki's voice echoed in his mind.Hisoka looked up at the mirror and screamed. There starring right back at his was Muraki.
"In a sense you are a reproduction of me."
"NO!" Hisoka shouted. He wasn't like Muraki!
Glass flew everywhere as Hisoka punched the mirror. He fell to the ground and tears once again began flowing.
He looked at the cuts on his hands beginning to heal themselves. Now was the blood his or hers? It honestly didn't make a difference to himHisoka looked at the glass all over the floor and saw Muraki's reflection in every shard. Or maybe it was his reflection. They were pretty much the same, weren't they?
He picked up a piece of glass, not caring that it pierced his skin and watched as blood stained it.
He was stained with blood, just like Muraki. He was a murderer, just like Muraki. He was a monster, just like Muraki. He was just like Muraki.
Hisoka laughed then, a hysterical, insane laugh. It was hopeless, everything was hopeless now. Why bother denying the truth. Muraki had been right all along.
So here Hisoka sat, him and his bloodstained reflection, with his haunting laughter filling the air.
Didn't like confronting
(The Muraki in you)
Was afraid of fighting
(The Muraki in you)
Knowing you would lose
(To the Muraki in you)
End
Author Note: Wow did I just write that? Poor Hisoka! So how was it? Good? Bad? So-so? Well review so I can know! I was thinking of writing a sequel to this, but I wasn't sure. Let me know what you think I should do. Constructive criticism is ok, but no flames please!