[Three]
Dark
Plush leather cushions him, his painted nails tapping softly against the arm of the chair. The walls are a deep, moody grey, the furniture made of either leather or metal. Skull heads line the walls and bookshelves, a sculpture of metal spikes, enlarged chess pieces and books with dark leather bindings. There's a fake leave-less tree sculpture in the corner, nestled away from everything else. There's a small glass table, a metal chair, a tiny metal stove and a miniature fridge.
His eyes are locked on his reflection on the mirror, which takes up the entirety of the wall opposite from where he's sitting. His room is small, dark and cold, with a single window to his left. The drapes are drawn shut, letting in on a little light through the cracks. It's early enough in the day that he can see everything without having to turn on any lights or even pull those Godforsaken curtains open.
He looks away from himself, staring across the room. The books are haphazardly shoved on the shelves, there's a bowl of aged fruit sitting on top of the fridge, and bottles upon bottle of alcohol are on the coffee table and floor. Some are empty, some are not. There's a glass tumbler next to a half-empty bottle in front of him, and he stares at it for a while. He's not sure why he attempts to debate whether or not he wants a drink, because it's habit for him to reach for it, pour himself a hearty drink and sit in his chair, downing several at once.
Groaning quietly, he stares at the empty tumbler in his hands, seeing the tiniest drop of alcohol left in the bottom. He tilts the glass, watching the bead roll down, clinging to the edge before letting go, splashing on the hardwood floor. He pours himself another, swallowing his drink in two gulps before repeating the process; watching that tiny little lonely bead roll and fall.
He squeezes the glass, his grip tightening before he snarls and chucks it across the room. It shatters against the wall on impact, glass raining down onto the floor around the fake tree. Its bony black limbs cast shadows with what little light there is across the floor and he growls to himself before standing from his chair. His boots make heavy thuds as he paces the floor, his eye continuing to return to the glass mirror.
It takes a moment for his reflection to fade away before he stares into a room completely unlike his own. There's sunlight. There's organization and a homey sort of feel, yet all he feels inside is disgust for this perfect, happy little room. In it is a man with his face and his body. But unlike the man in the other room, his own hair is neatly arranged, gelled up in an aesthetically pleasing wave, glossy and black. His eyebrows are thick and neat, trimmed to perfection. His complexion is pale, ghostly almost, nails painted and fingers adorned in rings.
Unlike his copy in the sunshine room, his eyes are gold.
He snarls at his twin, clawing at the glass surface of the mirror that separates their rooms. The blue-eyed man looks up from his journal and his tea, grimacing a little at the sight of him. His snarls grows deeper and he steps back from the mirror as his twin stands slowly, shrugging a little as if to say "What?"
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know why he feels such burning rage for his counterpart, but he does and that's all he's ever known to feel. Complete, consuming hatred. And something else, but he'd never admit to it, even if he's almost certain his twin has seen it before.
He grabs a bottle of alcohol, gulping straight from it, watching those blue eyes sadden and his twin's head shake in disappointment. His insides twist as he gathers alcohol in his mouth before spraying it across the mirror over where he can see his twin's face. There's a moment where they both watch the liquid collect and roll down in streaks, and he stares with trembling hands as his other self sighs and looks away.