Prologue:
A/N: Hope that I don't completely confuse all of you : )
It was all red. Blood.
Clank . . . clank . . . steel swords striking each other, and with each strike sparks.
'Jab . . . Perry . . . Jab . . . Thrust . . .'
It was blurred; the movements were so fast that nothing but the opponent stayed in focus. The swords continued to connect with each other; the fighters continued their dance of death. It was all there. They were all there. It was all so red. Red blurs continually rushed past. He was all that was in focus, and he was causing all of the red. The red had to end.
' . . .An opening . . . '
Crash...
Glass went flying in all directions.
A sword was sticking out of the wall and what was left of the mirror. The whole battle was nothing but an illusion. Droplets of blood dripped one by one from his face. His eyes were dilated, staring at the glass on the floor. He was choking in air by the gasps. His knees were on the ground, one arm being hooked over his sword, and the rest of his body he wasn't supporting. He was hunched over. Blood was dripping off his chin. The weight of his body on the sword, cause it to become loosened from the wall, and when it fell out, his body fell. The position was somewhat awkward, and uncomfortable, but his consciousness was far from caring. His hands moved, and he held his head cupped behind his hands, letting the darkness they provided shield his eyes from the blood.
The glass cut the backs of his hands as his face shook back and forth, his hands still sheltering his eyes. Through his hands, blood dripped, much more than his come from the cuts on the back of his hands, and more than any other of the cuts that he had received from the glass shattering.
This new blood was from a fresh wound, one that had happened. As the warm liquid seeped through his fingers, he seemed to regain some of his consciousness. He looked at his hands. Then, a look of pure horror came to his face. He looked down into the broken pieces of mirror, and saw the scar on his face, oozing blood.
The man, was now sitting straight up, on his knees. He was looking off into space. His face was an unreadable mass of cuts and blood. He was totally motionless, you could not even see his chest expand and contract with breath, or his jugular vein beat with each passing heart beat, no he was totally motionless.
Then suddenly, his fist came from beside him, and crashed into the wall in front of him, where the mirror had been previously. Whatever was left of the looking glass, fell to the floor with the impact if his fist. His eyes as transfixed as before. Now however, his lips were moving. The words were silent however, for breath was not following the movement of his lips, as to make speech; However, his lips had a mind of his own and the movement just added to the trace like feeling that the room had acquired since the second the mirror was hit.
He got to his feet, still in a trance, and moved slowly to the couch on the other side of the room. He stood next to hit, and turned and stared at the mirror, and the blood on the floor. Then his eyes moved to his hands. He took one look at his hands, and them he fell over.
He fell, right onto the couch. About a minute later, his breathing seemed to return, and the steady rise and fall of his chest, made you wonder if he might have died and come back to life again, for there was no such movement just a minute ago. Then if one were to examine closer, one would find that the man was fast asleep, a calm serene look on his face, blood still dripping from what looks to be a fresh wound to his left cheek. A few small pieces of glass were in his hair, and a few small cuts adulterated the areas of skin that were exposed when the mirror had shattered.
He was sleeping too peacefully after such an abrupt and disturbing self-encounter.
End Prologue