|The Mirror Part III: Fiery Fury
Author: All Alone With Her Thoughts PM
Part three of 'The Mirror'. You begin to find out more about the character. Who are 'they'...?Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Tragedy - Words: 395 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 1 - Published: 01-22-07 - Status: Complete - id: 2308723
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
The blood runs down my arm and drips onto the floor, creating a pool of crimson. I feel free, finally. Everything is right, everything is good.
But, no, it isn't. I can still here them, and I can still hear you. "Why" you say, "why did you do that? Why?"
"Why?" I say, getting up, staring down at the many faces of you. "because I just don't care anymore."
"That's a bad reason." you say, your eyes wide with horror.
"Why can't you just leave me alone?" I say, my voice shaking, the volume rising. "Why can't you just go away?" I shake my arm angrily at you, blood sprinkling on you. "I killed you, I killed you." I'm screaming now, "Why can't you be killed? Why?" I demand.
You smile. "Oh, unless you rid the whole world of glass, of mirrors, and of everything with a reflection, I'll never be gone. I'll always be here, and I'll always look after you. I'll be here, watching you, making another bad choice after another. Always."
"No." I scream. I run, I have no choice. The weak and the hopeless feelings are taking over me.
I grab blindly at the door handle, turning it with fiery fury. I run out the door and down the stairs, down to where there is more glass, but there wouldn't be for long. I need to get rid of it, I need to make it all go away.
I stop at the hall mirror first. Your face is there, waiting for me. I swing my arm as you open your mouth, trying to stop me. But you can't me now, not now.
You shatter, once more. I run away from the shards. I will not, can not, see you, can not listen to you. I'm crazed with horror, crazed with pain.
I stop in by the kitchen door. There's a small mirror there too. I run into the kitchen grab a mug from the counter, and throw it, full speed at the little reflection of myself – the image of you.
"What the hell are you doing?" I turn very slowly. They're standing in the kitchen, staring from me to the mirror, and back to me again.
"What the hell are you doing?" My father repeats.