A war.

A broken heart.

A shattered mirror.

Of course, in the end, the mirror shatters. The heart breaks, and you're left with the shards, and it slices through your hands, and it's red, so overwhelmingly red. It looks like the gushing red in your ledger, the red that stains the battlefield, the red that the flowers are. You see the red, and you're reminded of the blood on your hands, the lives you've taken in exchange for glory. You've made a deal with the devil, and didn't think about the consequences. You're drowning, and no one can save you, because that's the price you must pay.

You think of the father, who wanted to create a better world for his children. The brother, who just wanted to see his siblings again. The child, too young to be fighting, blinded by the promises of glory, the whispers of fame. The husband, who'd promised his lover that he'd be back. That he'd come home. You took their lives, and now you can never forgive yourself. You hold the mirror in your shaking hands, but you drop it. It shatters. You scramble to pick up the pieces, but you lose some. You look at the distorted image of yourself, and some pieces of you are gone, and it's fitting, you suppose. Your soul has shattered as well, and some pieces have gone missing. You're no longer whole.

You come home, and your mother wraps her arms around you. She's proud, but she doesn't know what you've done. You're not proud of yourself. She whispers in your ear, holds you like a baby, tells you that she's glad you're home. You're not glad, because you wished that you'd died. That someone would take your life, and they would hold the burden of never-ending guilt. Because the father, the brother, the son, the husband, they won't go home. No, they would be buried, another nameless face. Another number on the screen. Another statistic. But they lived. And you're the reason that they're not here anymore.

You say that you're tired, and that's partly true, so she lets it go. You walk the streets, and you see the father, wrapping his arms around his children. You see the brother giving his sibling a piggy-back. You see the son, wrapping his arms around his mother. You see the husband, kissing his partner. You walk faster, and you keep your head down. When you lift it again, they're gone. And you're glad.

You throw your mirror onto the ground because you can't stand to see yourself. The monster that you've become. The red is on your face, and you see the burning stares. They know. Half of the pieces are gone. You're no longer whole. You never were, but you don't dwell on that. You pick up a rag and try to wash the red off. The rag is stained crimson, but the red is still there, a brand, a warning.

You don't sleep, you don't eat, you don't leave the house. You can't. You can't continue to keep yourself alive when so many has died at your hands. If they can never eat, never sleep, never come home, why should you? Why? Why? Why?

Your mother is worried. She calls, and you answer, and she asks if you're okay, and you say that you're fine, because you are. You're alive, and shouldn't that be enough? Shouldn't that be fine? You wish that you weren't though. You wish that you had died in war, another young person led like a lamb to slaughter. There is honour in that, you suppose, dying on the battlefield. At the hands of others. You would feel light because you would know that you fought for your country. But you're here, and your hands, your face, everywhere is stained red. No matter how hard you try, you can't wash it off.

She asks if you want to come over. You say no. Because that son you killed won't see his mother again. You cast a glance toward the shards of the mirror, still strewn across the floor. It resembles your heart. You kneel down. You grab a fistful of the shards that are left. And you throw it across the room. You start to sob ugly, heaving, heart-wrenching sobs. The tears burn and you imagine it to be red. Blood is running down your face, clogging your lungs, choking you, and suddenly you're drowning. You try to call for help, claw your way out, but you can't. It overwhelms you, and you're struggling, wishing for air, praying for it. You're scared, but you shouldn't be because this is what you deserve. It is a doorway, an escape, a relief.

And then. You can breathe again. Air fills your lungs, and you've never hated anything more than that. You try to hold your breath, you start to shake, and pure rage fills you. Because you were going to die, and you wanted to. You're a coward, scared of death, yet craving it. A hypocrite. A monster.

You start walking to the other side of the room. You pick up the pieces, cradling them in your hands. One slices your finger, but you let the blood drip onto the floor. You try to piece them back together, but now only a fraction of it is left. You see your eye. You see the monster caged behind it, trying to burst free. You dump the shards into the bin.

You leave your house for the first time in two weeks to get a new mirror. You find a small one, and fall in love with it. It is perfect and you buy it without hesitation. You see the cashier looking at you, and you realise the red on your face. She knows. You start to shake, and you downturn your head. Your chin is tucked in, and you keep your eyes trained on the floor. You realise she is talking to you, and you raise your head. She points to a scar on your arm. Asks if you're a veteran. You follow her line of sight until you see the puckered, raised skin. You didn't get that scar from war. You got it from the shards of glass that now sit lying around your house. You got it from the mirrors that have been shattered time and time again, each one cutting deeper, and deeper, until you almost bleed out. You patch it up quickly at that point, because you're a coward. You crave death, but reject it every time it's near. You nod your head at her question, and she thanks you for your service. You try to smile, something you haven't done in a while, but it comes out more of a grimace. It's like you've forgotten. You guess you have.

You walk out. Sees a mother scold her son. It twists your gut. You walk faster. Faster. Faster. Until you reach the run-down apartment block. Until you're in the safety of your own walls. The mirror smashes on the floor. The wounds burn. You relish the feeling.

You don't leave your apartment. Your mother bangs on the door, begging you to come out, to talk to her, but you ignore it. You ignore her tears, and when you hear the heart-wrenching sobs, you block it out. It reminds you of nights spent crying, giving in to the guilt that consumes you. The mirror shatters again and again, and you smash it against the ground, debris flying everywhere. It slices through skin, embedding itself within flesh. You crave the sting, the pain, the familiarity of it. It reminds you of the pain you've caused others, and its punishment. Retribution.

The night is cold, and your apartment is even colder. You are dressed in nothing, and you let the cold bite you. You let the wind blow over. The warm, salty tears pouring down your face warms you enough. You scour the small room for shards of the glass, and you find one. Just a sliver, and you realise that you're so much more broken than you think. You only have a sliver of your humanity left.

You sob, and then you slice your skin, and that brings you back to reality.

You've made a decision. You buy a new mirror. You write a letter. You haven't picked up a pen in so long, your hand shakes. Or maybe that's you being scared. The fear that is gnawing at your stomach.

The mirror smashes. You hold your breath.

You wait. You wait. You wait.

It's 11:50. You look for the pieces.

You find none.

You leave. You say goodbye under your breath.

In the end, the mirror shatters. Your heart breaks. And you're left with the shards.