I know it's a cold day in hell when I can't accept that the person
staring at me from the mirror is really me… Hell's heating bills must be
phenomenal. I don't remember what I used to look like, but it sure as hell
wasn't this. Yeah, I get paid on commission every time I used the word
hell. But screw the paycheck.
I look at myself and wonder 'Where'd I get that?' Long, winding scars ran down my right arm from an angry OZ soldier in possession of a razor. There were lash marks on my back, I knew. Erratically spaced lesions that crossed my spine from days of torture. A wide gash marred my left shoulder where I'd been struck by shrapnel. An interesting design of pinpricks arranged themselves in a rough zigzag in the middle of my chest from when I'd been stabbed with a piece of shattered glass. Stripes were etched across one palm from when I'd grabbed a weapon from a live fire. Two long slash-marks crossed paths across my ribs and stomach. My legs were another story. Starting at my left ankle and ending at my hip was line that set perfectly straight when I buckled my knee. That was from Heero, who became displeased with me one day and saw a scar from a kitchen knife as fitting punishment. On the other leg, a laceration wound itself artfully around my calf and swerved back up again violently only to repeat its design around my thigh from when I tried to squirm out from underneath a pile of debris.
My favorite story though is of the scar under my right eye. The mark has faded somewhat over the years, but still stands as a visible reminder of what I once had.
I once had a lover. I once had happiness. I once had someone who saw me for everything I was and cared for me anyway. But… I threw it all away. I told him I hated him one day. It was a lie, but I never got to tell him. I never got to apologize for my rashness. I went into a battle with an agenda in front of me, and that is hardly a wise decision. Why? Because I lost.
Now, here I am. Alone. Alone in an OZ prison with no hope of rescue, because the only person who would have rescued me was dead. And he died thinking I hated him.
All I can do is sit in front of my little mirror and think. Well, I've thought and I've thought and I've come to a conclusion.
My life's not worth living. So, you know what? I think I'll add one more to my morbid little collection. Of course, it won't have a chance to scab over and scar, but it will nonetheless go on the list of mistakes not to make. Sad. I won't be around to read it.
Tori: For a friend of many scars, emotional and physical.
Ke: Guess who got dumped?
Tori: Not gonna say, but we love you anyway, baby. Even though we're oceans apart, here's a hug and a kiss from everyone in Kyoto.
Ke: …I ain't gonna kiss ya, but I will wish you best of luck.
Tori: You realize by e-mailing me about it, it's become an international scandal… ^__^
I look at myself and wonder 'Where'd I get that?' Long, winding scars ran down my right arm from an angry OZ soldier in possession of a razor. There were lash marks on my back, I knew. Erratically spaced lesions that crossed my spine from days of torture. A wide gash marred my left shoulder where I'd been struck by shrapnel. An interesting design of pinpricks arranged themselves in a rough zigzag in the middle of my chest from when I'd been stabbed with a piece of shattered glass. Stripes were etched across one palm from when I'd grabbed a weapon from a live fire. Two long slash-marks crossed paths across my ribs and stomach. My legs were another story. Starting at my left ankle and ending at my hip was line that set perfectly straight when I buckled my knee. That was from Heero, who became displeased with me one day and saw a scar from a kitchen knife as fitting punishment. On the other leg, a laceration wound itself artfully around my calf and swerved back up again violently only to repeat its design around my thigh from when I tried to squirm out from underneath a pile of debris.
My favorite story though is of the scar under my right eye. The mark has faded somewhat over the years, but still stands as a visible reminder of what I once had.
I once had a lover. I once had happiness. I once had someone who saw me for everything I was and cared for me anyway. But… I threw it all away. I told him I hated him one day. It was a lie, but I never got to tell him. I never got to apologize for my rashness. I went into a battle with an agenda in front of me, and that is hardly a wise decision. Why? Because I lost.
Now, here I am. Alone. Alone in an OZ prison with no hope of rescue, because the only person who would have rescued me was dead. And he died thinking I hated him.
All I can do is sit in front of my little mirror and think. Well, I've thought and I've thought and I've come to a conclusion.
My life's not worth living. So, you know what? I think I'll add one more to my morbid little collection. Of course, it won't have a chance to scab over and scar, but it will nonetheless go on the list of mistakes not to make. Sad. I won't be around to read it.
Tori: For a friend of many scars, emotional and physical.
Ke: Guess who got dumped?
Tori: Not gonna say, but we love you anyway, baby. Even though we're oceans apart, here's a hug and a kiss from everyone in Kyoto.
Ke: …I ain't gonna kiss ya, but I will wish you best of luck.
Tori: You realize by e-mailing me about it, it's become an international scandal… ^__^