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slasheddreams · 1 month

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The Figure in The Mirror [ broken glass / blood rain ] - The Expurgation Series [ broken glass / blood rain ]

content warning for: [ foul language, descriptions of character death, mentions of blood and violence, and implications of childhood violence. Oh, and a little bit of classical insanity. ]

Sometimes, the figure in the mirror is right about you. In an almost mocking sense, it’s always right.

It knows you deep down inside, like an old friend who never really left. Someone who, for better and for worse, is always there, right by your side.

He really isn't you. But rather, someone you feel like you know. A little trickier to catch out, because he isn't always there. Sometimes it's just me and my reflection. It's a little hard to tell, sometimes.

It's like a perfect simulacrum, you can't tell anything is wrong at first. Sure, something feels a little off, like a hair out of place... or a missing scar. It's always something really small.

Of course, it isn't always so subtle. Even if only I can see it, it's staggering how different people can look from their reflections in the right scenarios. Maybe it's only difficult because me and him are twins, so there's little to tell us apart to begin with. I hated him for that. I only ever felt like half of a person.

Even if he technically doesn't exist anymore.

Even if no one remembered he ever existed to begin with.

That sucks.

Looking in the mirror is... odd sometimes. In our world, her hair is an almost... dusted cherry red color, and it's rather long, thick and messy. And her eyes are this light baby blue color. But in the mirror, sometimes, her hair is really short, and a soft blonde color. And her eyes are more... what is that color called? It's as if roses could be golden in color... I guess we'll call that color "rose gold" for now. Do you see what I mean? It's just... different.

Or that boy with the black hair and the white streak, and the purple eyes. Sometimes, his reflection is the opposite. Choppy uneven white hair with a black streak in the bangs, and really soft yellow eyes. He's a little taller, a little thinner than the one in our world. But he looks just as sweet and friendly. Hmm. I don't have much to say about that one.

And then there's the orange-haired boy with the mullet or that creepy missionary, or the light purple-haired boy, obsessed with birds and the idea of flight. They all look different in the mirror to me. But they don't see anything wrong with themselves. And it leaves me a little confused. How they can't see the fake thems in the mirror. Or, maybe they're the fake ones here, and the ones in the mirror, that's the real them?

... Of course, the actions themselves never seem to change. The words they seem to speak, the way they laugh, smile, cry, plead. Those were all the same.

Well, there was one. But I never gave them the time to mess with me. It was- no- he was a playful little thing. He liked to tap on objects, to roll items into view, to flicker the lights, and more.

He was like an attention-seeking whore in that way. When he was around, my eyes had to be on him, or I didn't get to have eyes anymore. He liked to be seen, to be heard, to be wanted.

And that was the mistake.

I hated him.

He looks human, but, he's not. Oh my god. He just isn't.

...

And that photographer wonders why I don't like mirrors. They make no sense.

Mirrors shouldn't be able to touch you.

...

Both of the mirrors in his personal quarters were covered with a thick, beige blanket. Mirrors were always a more sore subject for the man. He wasn't sure why.

It didn't take him long to shove his way through the small, crowded area he was forced to call his new home. Of course, he would rather be here than at his actual home. Sure, he loved his sister (... did he have a sister...? He couldn't actually remember. The medication they gave him made things really fuzzy.) but his parents... well, he didn't know too many things.

But he knew he never should have felt unsafe in his own home.

I think?

Papers and craft supplies littered the floor of the small room, which he stepped over with ease. Holding the plain black coffee in one hand, and the sweet caramel drink in the other, cradling the crepe against his chest, he maneuvered his way to the small desk, tucked away in the corner.

He paused a moment, rubbing his face in tired silence.

God.

He wasn't sure how long that coffee would save him, how long it would keep him awake. He hadn't slept in weeks.

He felt like shit. (Judging from the barista's reaction, he didn't look as terrible as he felt, at least.)

He took a seat down at his desk hesitantly (although, if you asked anyone else, it seemed more like he had collapsed into his chair.), simply staring at his shaking palms. The scars, he remembered how they started at his palms, and in a jagged, zigzag pattern, traveled up his arm, just past his elbow. Most of the scarring on his right arm was hidden beneath bandaging. Even if he had long since lost the ability to feel in that portion of his arm, he still was plagued by phantom pains. This was one of those moments, where a burning sensation flared up from his palm and seared his flesh.

"... shit! Oh, god damnit, son of a- mhm."

Biting his tongue, his fingers twitched in pain. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, but he refused to cry over something so... stupid. Fuck you. Fuck that.

Leaning over the desk, he clasped a handful of his thick, messy brown hair in his shaking hand, tugging on his coat with his other hand. Trying to subdue the shakiness, trying to distract himself, he grasped at anything that could simply... distract.

And, with the sounds of light taps, distracted he was. Taps, just light enough to catch someone's attention, but not distinctive enough to tell where it was coming.

Of course, he wasn't just anyone. I was better than that.

Slowly turning his head and lowering his hand, Daishobu sneered as his eyes narrowed. Carefully, he placed his palm against the wooden desk, standing up. Light brown eyes scanned the small room, before falling on one of the covered-up mirrors.

"... yeah, no. I'm not doing this today."

And as quickly as he focused on the mirror, he looked away. He refused to give it any more of his attention, he knew that was exactly what it wanted. However, it refused to simply give in to this... unsatisfactory result, as the light tapping began again.

And then, this light tapping became sad (yet, clearly faked) sniffles and fishing voices. It began to cry, to whine, to sob, to mock.

"Do you not love me anymore, brother?"

"I'm not your brother. I don't even have a brother."

"Well, you did have a brother! But then, papa sent him to hell. And now, nothing remains but me. Boo hoo! Stop ignoring me."

Gripping onto the desk tightly, Daishobu looked away with a huff, shaking his head. This seemed to happen every time. It always wanted something, violently so. And while it was hard to ignore it, he had done it before. One time.

But he didn't know what it was he was dealing with at that time.

"Hey! Heyyy! Daishobu, Daishobu, Daiiii."

The gentle taps on the glass eventually turned into slightly harder bangs, shaking the frame of the mirror slightly. The blanket covering the mirror began to fall and then landed on the floor with a gentle thud. Daishobu groaned in response, covering his face in scared hands. Maybe he should have super glued those blankets to the mirrors, he thought. That way, at least, they couldn't fall off.

“… heyyy… heyyy don’t ignore me. That isn’t kind! That isn’t very peace and friendship.”

He paused at the sentiment for a moment, before rubbing his face in annoyance.

“Peace and friendship…? You should be the last person to trying and pull that card on me. Hell, you ARE the absolute last person whose opinion I should be giving a damn about.”

Sneering in response, he kept his back turned, racking shaky hands through his hair. Looking at the sweet caramel drink and the strawberry crepe on his desk, he paused a moment.

“…But, sure. Peace and fuckin’ friendship. Consider this my peace and friendship to you, you eldritch squander. Now can you stop usin’ my reflection as your vessel and fuck off?”

Without turning around, he gestured to the items by his side. Rubbing his eyes slowly, he groaned. He was astonished at how little he cared anymore. How little hearing the footsteps coming up behind him actually bothered him.

No. They weren't really footsteps. Moreso, it was the sound of the countless papers from behind him moving and being pushed aside. It doesn't make noise when it walks. But, in his head, he could see "himself" using his feet to clear a path forward.

Feeling a hand running along his shoulder, not really there. And then, multiple hands resting along his back. It should have bothered him, knowing he was the only person in this room. Hell, he should have been bothered that this... thing was touching him. But it didn't bother him in the slightest.

What bothered him was the mirror near the desk, watching as the beige blanket was slowly tugged off the mirror's surface, until the blanket fell onto the floor, revealing a reflection of the room he sat in.

"... That's better. Woah, you've let yourself go. You look like shit."

"Wow. Thanks for the compliment, asshole."

And, center in its reflection, stood... himself. Well, it looked like him if you only spared a glance. Ignoring the dark mass of hands coming from just behind the reflection and the red eyes, then yeah, it looked pretty damn close.

Watching as the coffee was picked up in the reflection, Daishobu yawned. His breath hitched as he felt a hand creep along the nape of his neck, fingers gently scraping against his jaw. With a violent twitch and an instinctive smack towards the air, he hissed. He hated the feeling on being touched, of having hands laid on him in any sort of manner. He despised it.

He loathed it.

"And the crepe... you even got it broken in half and dipped in chocolate? Wow! You do love me after all! I'm enthused! I'm overjoyed even! I feel so lucky!"

Shuddering a bit, Daishobu looked away from the mirror. Remembering the words of the bartender, his eyes rested on the window.

"The old witch said someone used to order that same thing, what's up with that, huh? You said they don't remember anything from the past, was that a fuckin' lie?"

"I dunno, she didn't recognize you, isn't that proof enough? I mean, if I got burnt alive like an actual witch and allowed to remember that, I'd totally remember the face of the man who killed me. But that's just me, personally speaking."

To this statement, he could only roll his eyes in response. Leaning on his hand, he groaned. Memories of a burning fire flashed before his eyes, the screams and sobs from within the cafe... and the gross sound of crackling bones and oozing organs as the cafe fell to pieces.

It didn't matter. He had reduced all three of the cafe residents to ash.

"Mhm... hey, let's not talk about that one. That's not relevant to my question either way."

Shrugging off the hypothetical (and, attempting the shrug off the many invisible hands he could feel creeping on him), Daishobu continued on.

"You said they wouldn't remember. So why would she remember a drink and snack combo as highly specific as yours? She never mentioned it in the past."

"Simple. You never ordered it in the past. You would have never known!"

"And yet, there I fucking was, asshole. With a familiar drink."

"Well, even if I told you this hypothetical truth, you'd never believe me. So, boo hoo! Move on-"

...

"H-Huh?"

The reflection had stopped talking suddenly, more focused as a beautiful crimson-red began blooming from the bandages around his neck, a thick, viscous liquid beginning to dip from the cut. Blood began to pour from the reflection's slit throat, staining the reflected room's floor in crimson tides.

But in the real world, the only thing that remained was the fresh blood staining the blade the man held in his hand. Tilting his wrist slightly, he flicked the blood off the blade, splattering the sheets beneath his arm.

"O. Oh. So, you've made your choice. I-I won't forgive you for this one, you know-"

"I don't care. Just die already, █████."

The reflection's hand began to tremble lightly as it rose its hands to its bleeding throat. Despite everything, it wore a smile on its face. Even as crimson hues spilled through its fingers and it fell onto one knee, it never once seemed bothered.

"You're just a little bit of a monster, aren't you, Daishobu?"

And then, it collapsed onto the floor and moved no longer.

...

Mhm.

He knew it would be back.

Standing up from his desk, he twirled the small pocket knife in his hand before carefully wiping the blood against his sleeve. Humming to himself, he closed the switchblade before placing it in the inside pocket of his coat.

Then, turning to face the mirror, he paused. Moving around his foot, his eyes focused on the reflection's corpse (can it even properly die?). Then, winding his foot back, he kicked the air as hard as he could. His foot collided with the otherwise invisible corpse, earning him the sound of crackling bones as the reflection's corpse was violently sent flying out of view.

"... Hmm."

And then, snatching the now cold crepe from his desk, he turned to face the closed door.

The door opened with an eerie creak, and then, it slammed shut as the man left his room, as if nothing had happened.

...

The figure in the mirror can be right about you, sure.

But, what does it matter if it's dead? Dead people tell no tales.

So, stop talking, █████.

#[ broken glass -- dark themed writing ]#[ and here she lies the expurgation series ]#[ 'daishobu' -- who are you really? ]#[ man in the mirror -- █████ ]#[ uhm. yip. yippee for writing? ]#[ okay i skuttle away to go and hide now ]

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