Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or any character or product associated
with it. Gundam Wing is a licensed product of Sunrise and Bandai
Entertainment. I make not claim to it in anyway. There now, didn't that
sound official?
AN: Ah, the nearly minatory author's note. I'm no stranger to fan fiction,
but this is the first fic of this kind, I've tried. Therefore, I'm
particularly interested in feedback, if you have the time unleash upon me
your opinion. Flames are, as always, accepted. If after reading this you
feel the need to curse me and my family for the next several generations;
I'd like to know.
There's always been talk in books and poetry and among those who call themselves intellectuals, about how you can look in a mirror and not recognize the person staring back. Somewhere along the way I have made it a point not to look, because someone once told me, "If you know yourself well enough to recognize yourself you can't see beyond the end of your own nose." So I sit at my white, wicker vanity that I have owned since last year, but that I tell everyone I've had since I was six. The paint's chipping, and, therefore, it looks like it could be the truth. And I glance at the mirror, but only to see enough to put on the ungodly amounts of makeup I wear. Not because I'm worried about not being able to recognize the reflection, but because I'm reasonably sure that even after all I've done, I'll know exactly who's looking back at me. Thus the only time I use that mirror, or any mirror is, to coat the dark circles under my eyes with foundation, give my pale cheeks color, and put gloss over my chapped lips. I've never needed lipstick, my lips, they crack and bleed. And that gives them color. I understand, I know, that it's morbid, but it is also my silent tribute to my life as I have chosen to survive it. And weather, on some level, I always had this planned, or not, it has also become a silent reminder. So that every night when I sit in front of my mirror, and focus only on my perfected mask, and take great care not to look into my own eyes. I run my fingers over my lips; and I will know I have blood on my hands. Furthermore, I will know that it is not the old and dry blood of a mistake made years ago or simply the metallic taste you get in the back of your mouth when you know there is blood but you can't find the source. The invisible cut that was caused from some incident that can be barley linked to me through a chain of people, which unfortunately resulted in the death of someone, whose name I cannot remember. This is the thin, bright, liquid blood which spills form an open wound, and I have not get had the pleasure of it being the same blood from day to day. Because I did not have the fortune to stumble upon this reflection years after the fact, or to realize the error of my ways in the eye of the storm when there was still time to repent. This flashed through my mind as I pulled the trigger of the gun that I have shoved back into the inside pocket of my coat because it might come in handy latter tonight, and that will come in handy tomorrow. And the only reason any of this occurred to me at all is because the man I just shot is getting blood all over my white, wicker vanity.
There's always been talk in books and poetry and among those who call themselves intellectuals, about how you can look in a mirror and not recognize the person staring back. Somewhere along the way I have made it a point not to look, because someone once told me, "If you know yourself well enough to recognize yourself you can't see beyond the end of your own nose." So I sit at my white, wicker vanity that I have owned since last year, but that I tell everyone I've had since I was six. The paint's chipping, and, therefore, it looks like it could be the truth. And I glance at the mirror, but only to see enough to put on the ungodly amounts of makeup I wear. Not because I'm worried about not being able to recognize the reflection, but because I'm reasonably sure that even after all I've done, I'll know exactly who's looking back at me. Thus the only time I use that mirror, or any mirror is, to coat the dark circles under my eyes with foundation, give my pale cheeks color, and put gloss over my chapped lips. I've never needed lipstick, my lips, they crack and bleed. And that gives them color. I understand, I know, that it's morbid, but it is also my silent tribute to my life as I have chosen to survive it. And weather, on some level, I always had this planned, or not, it has also become a silent reminder. So that every night when I sit in front of my mirror, and focus only on my perfected mask, and take great care not to look into my own eyes. I run my fingers over my lips; and I will know I have blood on my hands. Furthermore, I will know that it is not the old and dry blood of a mistake made years ago or simply the metallic taste you get in the back of your mouth when you know there is blood but you can't find the source. The invisible cut that was caused from some incident that can be barley linked to me through a chain of people, which unfortunately resulted in the death of someone, whose name I cannot remember. This is the thin, bright, liquid blood which spills form an open wound, and I have not get had the pleasure of it being the same blood from day to day. Because I did not have the fortune to stumble upon this reflection years after the fact, or to realize the error of my ways in the eye of the storm when there was still time to repent. This flashed through my mind as I pulled the trigger of the gun that I have shoved back into the inside pocket of my coat because it might come in handy latter tonight, and that will come in handy tomorrow. And the only reason any of this occurred to me at all is because the man I just shot is getting blood all over my white, wicker vanity.