A/N: You ever have one of those times where you just look at something and a story stampedes into your head screaming at you to write it down? Yeah. This is inspired by a beautiful (if not disturbing) picture of the same name by Dracunnum on Deviantart.
On the ship Malevolence, Grievous retired in his quarters with only the light above his mirror on. He sat in his chair, reflecting on his past. Images ran through his mind like a bizarre parade of sorrow. Friends and comrades who were lost in the war against the Huks; being forced into work that was basically slavery in order to help his people; being cheated of the death of a warrior; and now trapped in this prison, this shell of a body. He pulled himself out of the chair and gazed at himself in the mirror as he had done countless times before. And just like all the other times, he saw only one thing: a monster.
Why? He thought. Why should this happen to me? What have I done to deserve this? The more he stared at his reflection, the more he hated everything. His body, the Huks, the Jedi, the Separatists, himself. He especially hated the mask that had become his face. To him, it had become the symbol of everything and everyone that was causing his misery.
In a sudden rage, he lashed out and shattered the mirror. No more! He silently screamed. He reached with his claws and sunk them into the hairline crack that separated his mask from the rest of his head. Almost madly he pulled at the mask. With a sick ripping sound it was torn off and thrown to the other side of the room.
Searing pain lanced across his face and into his brain. He tried to scream, but nothing could be heard. His voice box was in the now-bloodied mask that had clattered to the opposite wall. His hands were turning red with what he suddenly recognized was blood. His blood.
Realizing what he had done, he clambered across the room in a growing panic to try to reach the mask and put it back on. It just stared hollowly back at him seemingly mocking him in his weakness.
He was losing too much blood; the room was starting to spin. He felt light-headed and at the same time like his limbs were made of lead. He was reaching out to the mask when he lost his motor control. He instead flopped down beside it and lay there, looking at the ceiling.
So this is how it will end, he bleakly thought. Not exactly the warrior's death he had imagined. But for some reason, this seemed better. Almost peaceful.
The light above the remains of the mirror was going dim. He heard a whisper of a sound and tried to turn his head to find the source, but he didn't have the strength. He heard another whisper: his name. But who was whispering his name?
The last thing he remembered seeing was a MagnaGuard's face as it looked down on his. Then he sank into a world of blessed dark and numbness.
A/N: As I am an aspiring writer, I will gladly accept any and all constructive criticism on how I can improve. Flames, however, are never welcome (are they anywhere?) and will either be ignored or used to make s'mores.