His face looks back at him dispassionately as he gazes in the mirror, which forcefully dominates in his field of vision. He doesn't know where he is, or even what the mirror's frame looks like – his reflection is at the reluctant, brutal centre of his vision.
It is a reflection that should please him. His dark eye circles, so prominent in recent times, have faded together with the scar. He stands straighter, occupying his space with much more ease than ever before and with considerably more conviction – he has never consciously acknowledged his lack until he is presented with the alternative.
It is a reflection that should please him. Smooth, unflappable, possessed of a solid sureness and an air of capability. Everything he desires. Everything he craves, or so he strives to repeat to himself again and again until it is etched in his mind and hopefully realised in action.
(His fingers flex slightly.)
A frown creases the reflection's brow as he feels the stirrings of disquiet. Full conviction does not suit his bearing – it is far too alien, too ideal, too rare. He is accustomed to the sinuous coils of conflict and the paralysis of doubt. This is not him as he knows himself to be.
Slowly, he reaches up to feel his face and run his fingers over the smooth, unblemished area where the scar should be. He has not had that scar for long and still remembers what the skin there felt like before he acquired it. It is perfect. Normal, like his reflection. Unflawed.
It feels wrong, like an itch deep within him that promises to worsen and spread. His breaths start to become shallow in morbid anticipation and he can feel his lips pinch together. And yet, his face in the mirror remains as smoothly invulnerable in its certainty. His reflection's hand is still on his face, but there is an incongruity in the calmness of its expression with what he thinks the actual look on his face is.
He is not calm. He has never been sure of himself. He has never. . .
And yet, all he ever wanted –
. . . Not this.
The unfocused anticipation surges and breaks over the boundaries of his control as he pinches a bit of skin on his cheek and pulls. The skin rips easily and he tears it away to reveal the scar. This shows in the reflection, a slightly faded but no less dramatic discolouration of the skin. Seeing it makes him release a breath he did not know he had been holding.
But still, his reflection stares at him coolly, almost mockingly and he knows that it is insufficient. He has wished, wanted, and thrown away almost everything else to attain this perfect unreality and direction – and yet, when confronted by the end result, it rings hollow.
A sudden wave of anger surges and he feels his face contort even as the reflection remains unchanged. With a barely controlled deliberation, he grabs at his side and wrenches at the skin, which splits like wet paper. This time there is an unexpected flare of pain and he staggers slightly, dropping the sheet of skin.
He looks up again and registers a very different image. Gone is the pulled together spectre, so sure of itself and its convictions. The ideal has given way to authenticity. He stares at a figure with a scar on its face and wound on its side and blood on its hands from – from stemming the flow.
But the clincher is the eyes.
They are eyes which stare back at him every day in the mirror, eyes which he hides behind a mask of intimidation and steel. Eyes which show him the truth and taunt him with the fact that he can never, he will never. . .
"You'll never be as strong. . ."
He needs strength to conquer, strength for the cause, strength of conviction. Strength is vital. But even with all the strength he ever wanted, he inexplicably rebels.
He looks dumbly as the figure moves to pick up something from the ground. Something that lengthens and glows. A growing hysteria causes him to choke out a chuckle as the figure swings back, and the chuckle soon becomes a full laugh.
His face is frozen in a rictus of laughter as his head falls to the ground.
.
.
The dream is buried, but not forgotten.