-M-I-R-R-O-R-
-S.Y.A.O.R.A.N.-
There is a mirror hanging on the wall in the room he is staying in. Every time that mirror crosses his line of vision, a chill goes down his spine and he breaks into a cold sweat as his breath quickens.
What scares him is not the mirror, but the reflection he sees in it. When he looks in the mirror, he imagines cold, expressionless eyes staring back at him – one brown and one bright blue – and he sees blood and it's everywhere, but when he goes to wipe it off his face he finds it's not there.
Looking in the glass he sees broken bodies, broken lives, broken families, broken relationships and broken promises.
Broken, everything is so very, very broken and he knows he can't do anything to fix them. His hand clenches into a tight fist – tight enough that his own nails are cutting his skin, but the pain it should have caused is ignored – as he is filled with sudden anger and hate and now…
....the mirror is broken too.
There's blood on his hand for real now from the sharp edges of the broken glass, but it doesn't make a difference, because it feels like there has always been blood on them – visible or not.
And now, he can't see his reflection anymore – can't see the cold eyes or the blood or all the brokenness – but he wishes he could, because as he stares at the wall where the mirror once hung, he's filled with more dread and more fear than before.
Because now, he can't see his reflection anywhere, can't see what he is doing. He has no way to monitor his reflection's actions, and he can't tell if he is still covered in blood and surrounded by brokenness – but the uneasy feeling in his gut tells him he probably is.
The reflection – his bloody, emotionless reflection – is out of his reach, in a place where he can't see him, can't stop him. He can't wash away the blood, and he can't heal the brokenness.
He's scared, terrified, because not being able to see his reflection is worse – much, much worse – than when he could see it.
And now…he wishes he had never broken the mirror.