Mirror

By Succubus

Hate is as important as love; its place in life is just as significant.

The world was a cold gray place, full of shadows and rot. Garbage piled on the streets; trash walked and talked, wore gold watches and drove BMW's.

He hated it.

The only thing worse than looking in the faces of the people he passed, was looking in the mirror--nothing could surpass the disgust he felt at having his own eyes stare back at him. He knew more than anyone that the rot and stench all around were epitomized in him.

'A product of my environment,' he thought to himself as he dug the blade into his arm, adding to the myriad of scars which decorated his body.

He was a creature of ugliness, but one who understood his place in the scheme of things. To make the world reflect him as he reflected it, that was his goal. Only the sharing of his pain and rage assuaged it; only the destruction of the lie of innocence and goodness would bring a smile to his face.

Sure, there were those who lived what some might call normal lives, with families, with cares, but the truth seemed so obvious--those people lied.

Beneath the facade of happy thoughts and sweet dreams, lived fear, lived people who were repulsed by their own reflections. They did their best to hide it from themselves, from the rest of the world. They covered their bodies in fashions and their lives with objects, all but pieces of a quilt meant to cover that simple truth, to hide from their despair.

They lashed out at those brave enough to be as honest as he was, those few who could look in the mirror and admit to their self-hatred.

He stared an empty stare at his own blood as it dripped down his arm, the droplets dangling from one finger before landing on the floor to form a small puddle. Absently he watched the puddle form and saw designs and figures in the little pool. From outside the bathroom a muffled sound reached his ears.

His interest in the world beyond him revived, he walked out of the cheap motel bathroom, his eyes fixed on the bed where a young woman lay tied. She moaned slightly, her eyes still closed as she struggled back towards consciousness. Wiping a finger across his blood, and then tasting it, he considered her.

Young, pretty, and from the looks of the diamonds in her ears and the trendy shoes on her feet, she was some daddy's precious little girl. All the better.

He waited for her to come to before approaching her. The point would be lost entirely if she was not alert enough to appreciate his ministrations.

She looked at him confused, one cheek swollen from where the two by four had struck her. It was raised and scraped, with just the hint of blood, but otherwise she was unmarked and actually quite perfect.

Her eyes grew wide and panic-filled as she looked at him:  the cuts still bleeding from his arm, the knife still in his hand. Whimpers from behind the gag were about all she could manage, so he wasn't sure if she was begging or screaming. It really didn't matter anyhow.

He sat on the edge of the bed by her, amused as she squirmed and struggled against the ropes. He placed he knife against her cheek, and pursed his lips.

"Shhh," he said to her.

She stilled, her body shaking and trembling, eyes wide in terror. Gently he sliced into her sweet face.

She jerked her face back, then from side to side, struggling like mad against the ropes. He laughed gleefully, watching her flop around on the bed like a fish out of water. Small red marks appeared on the blankets as she thrashed; the taste of her own blood touched her tongue.

He watched the spectacle she made of herself and knew that the muffled sounds were screams this time. She threw herself about until she toppled from the bed, landing in a heap and startling herself to silence. He clapped his hands, applauding her show.

"Bravo!"

Leaning on the bed, he hung his head over the side and smiled at her. She'd never seen anything as cold and evil in her short but happy life. In despair, she began to cry.

He stood, grabbing her by her hair, and drug her back onto the bed. He lay atop her, holding her down with the weight of his body, and licked at the blood and tears on her cheek.

Sitting up, he straddled the helpless girl. With one rough move, he ripped at her shirt, sending the buttons flying. He slid the knife between her breasts, cutting the middle of the bra and exposing her breasts to his view.

One filthy bloodstained hand reached out, and squeezed the flesh. He dug his fingers in, testing the pliability of her breast.

For fun, he wrapped his hand around her slender throat, choking her until her face turned bright red and mottled. He loved to see what colors the human body could create. Feeling her pulse beat in his palm, he sighed, and then released her.

He moved down her body, ripping and cutting away the remainder of her clothing. Sobs wracked the girl, her chest heaved with them.

With great care, he traced the lines of her body, his knife leaving first a white line, then small drops of blood behind. As he reached her stomach, he pressed the blade in, penetrating her with the cold steel. Somehow she still managed to be surprised.

He slowly pulled the knife out, and then slid it back into the same tear he had just created.

The girl's eyes fluttered and she threatened to pass out--no way in hell he'd let that happen. Viciously he slapped her face to revive her.

"What's the matter bitch?" He taunted, cackling, "Oh, poor little girl, does that hurt?" Slowly he slid the blade out.