taniss

Don't know where this came from, I really don't. But I had to write it down:



He held the blade tight in his fist, the pain of the broken skin doing nothing to snap him from his reverie. He stared with a burning passion at his own visage, as if trying to stare down his own reflection. There must be something in the pupils; a trace, just a trace, of remorse, guilt or shame.

Nothing was forthcoming.

All that remained were two dark orbs, impassive and inscrutable. He clenched his jaw, and his eyelids quivered under the strain. A drop of blood escaped from his balled fist and fell to the floor.

His nerves snapped like a guitar string, and the anguished howl lanced the still air, contorting his features into a mask of pain. The blade fell from his hand in a shower of blood, and he beat his forearms furiously against the mirror. Tears ploughed furrows down his face, to join the drops of blood at his feet. The mirror gave way under the assault, cracks beginning to distort and obscure his reflection. "She never loved me!" He bellowed, throwing back his head and sinking to his knees. Staring intently at his glass-punctured hands, he let forth a strangled sob. The blood would never be washed clean.

Happy Christmas