Reflections, collections of images and light – framing a picture-square of indirect confirmation. What you really are. Lies? (Bend the light and it distorts: ugly. Whimsical?) Falsehood. Who is he to believe?
Twist; clumsy fingers fumble with the tangled string of an eye patch, loosening until it falls away from his face and both of his eyes are uncovered. —one slitted, one not, staring eerily at themselves in the mirror.
His breath quickens, pulse throbs to the beat of two people and they become each other in that pane of glass. A hand reaches out to touch, and he on the other side mimics it. Their fingers touch, and it's warm instead of cool - then there's the question: whose hand is it? His? Or his? They are the same person, after all.
He killed with his smile - his warm eyes and his gentle words that caressed. He killed with his fangs - his glare and his biting curses, burning with hostility.
"I love you," he whispers, but it's soft and loving and harsh and rough at the same time, slightly strangled, as if the walls and the back of his throat are holding back the words. As if he's caught between an internal rift of violently clashing personalities. A turmoil of emotions, submissive, dominating, something in the middle. Maybe it's both. Something nags at the back of his mind - protect and destroy; your nature is fatal and irregular. Maybe it's neither.
It's an identity crisis, the unspoken question lingering in the air as the boy leans forward, closing his eyes and pressing his lips against the glass, his breath mingling with the others. As if it's against skin he knows can't be real (he only exists on the other side of the mirror) -skin cold like glass.