The sun was starting to set when Himchan set home. The sky turned from a gentle pinkish glow to a deep navy blue, thick clouds spreading in from the edges like hands taking hold of the world. They blotted out the tiny pricks of stars that slowly came into view and the soft glow of the crescent moon. Orange lights had flickered on as he reached his house, bathing him in an uneasy illumination. He stepped inside his dark house and hit the light switch with more force than necessary.

The hallway light bulb flickered on and buzzed for a few moments. He eyed it, still in the doorway. With a sharp 'clink!' it exploded in one bright starlight, then fizzled into small orange embers. He sighed and shut the door, cutting off the only other source of light. He hung his jacket on the wall, glad to catch it on the hook first time. He knew his own house well enough to navigate it in the dark.

He stubbed his toe on the way up the stairs and walked into the wall a few times before reaching his bathroom door. He flicked the light on and flinched at the clinical whiteness that buffeted his eyes until he got used to it. He waited patiently, but the bulb seemed to be holding well. He stepped inside and threw the cabinet open.

He unscrewed bottle after bottle and pored them away down the sink. Expensive lotions and oils and soaps and gels swirled down the drain in bubbly pastel ribbons. The smells of musk and berries and exotic plants consumed him like a cloud. He stepped out once to cough into the dark hallway, wheezing in the clear air. Even the hallway was developing an interesting fragrance from the sheer quantity of products being poured out.

Anything he couldn't pour, he just unscrewed the lid of and threw into the bath tub. He turned the tap on and let it fill slowly as he threw pot after pot of butters and waxes and rubs in. They dissolved into colourful suds and filled the bath with thick bubbles and oily residue. They gave off such an overpowering smell he had to cover his mouth and try not to heave into the toilet. He turned the tap off and opened a window, letting the room air out while he ran out.

He dragged all of his clothes from his wardrobes, throwing anything he thought worth keeping onto the bed and everything else into the corner. Small sized tops and tiny pairs of jeans were piled up, worn underwear thrown to the bin, and a few sweaters and jogging bottoms put into a separate pile to be decided on at a later date. Anything he wasn't certain if he might still fit into, he threw into the corner pile anyway. Anything he hadn't worn in a while: straight into the corner pile. Anything he'd bought and never touched: corner pile. Anything with a ghastly stain or rip on it: into the bin. His bed pile was looking incredibly small. But that was okay. That's what he wanted.

He gathered his remaining clothes and hung them back up in his wardrobe. The vast empty stave around them and bare hangers that hung either side of the remaining outfits felt fresh. A new start. Inviting.

The corner pile was gathered into plastic bags. He made a mental note to invite people around to see if they wanted anything before he donated it all to the nearest charity he could find. He dragged the bags out of his room and into the hallway, before going back in.

He grabbed the make-up bag and all the other skin products he kept in his room and took them to the bathroom. A handful more bottles were poured away and two more tubs added to the bath. He dumped the make-up into the bin. Any products he'd found during his frantic cleansing that had yet to be opened or used, he put beside the clothes bags. They could be gifts. He added the large box of bath bombs to the hallway as well.

He unplugged the bath and let the greasy products slug their way down the drain. He poured bleach in after the thick foamy mess, worried the pipes would clog. His eyes stung a little. He let the fumes slowly dissipate through the open window as he made his way downstairs, pulling the mask off.

He washed his face vigorously in the kitchen sink and wiped himself dry with a clean kitchen towel. He began walking to go upstairs, when he caught his reflection in the mirror in the sitting room. He stopped. He stared. Despite the hallway light being dead, he could see his skin was flushed red from being scrubbed, bare and covered in moles. Dark shadows had gathered beneath his eyes and the smile-lines around his mouth seemed deeper than ever in the low light. Without his usual contouring, his bare cheeks seemed huge and puffy rather than the soft recently rounded look they had during the early morning hours when he would start his routine. His hair was lank, flat and greasy looking. Something about his skin seemed off and he turned back to the kitchen, desperate for clarity.

He found the little round mirror that hung beside the back door, the frame decorated with little bits of glass – a gift his ex's little sister had given him – and stared closely. His usually smooth skin had a slight bumpy texture to it, as though a number of spots were on the verge of pushing through. He unhooked the mirror from the nail and held it closer in better lighting, examining the small peaks and dips on his cheek and jaw. The more he tilted it, he realised it was worse than he'd thought. It spread down his neck in angry reddening skin. He dragged a finger over the damage and felt the skin drying. He'd need to apply a lot of cream there.

He stiffened.

With a jerk of realisation, he let the mirror go. It hit the ground with splitting crack before landing flat on its back, the edge leaving a scuff in the floor tile. He gazed down at the broken glass, reflection split into pieces and fragmented beyond recognition. He could just make out his black hair and a single eye. Everything else was pale reddish shapes. A slight jolt passed though his body, making his skin prickle. His heart beat a little faster.

Yes.

That's the next step. Get rid of the mirrors.

One in the upstairs hallway was tossed against the wall, smashing into tiny pieces still inside its rigid wooden frame. His heart jumped with delight. The little ones in the bathroom were less lucky where the metal frames dented and the glass sprinkled out, filling the bath where they'd been thrown with sparkling glass confetti. He'd had less success with the ones on the cabinet doors, but the large cobweb where he'd hit them hard with the shower-head had been enough, filling the sink with glitter. The sparkling mess was a fantastical world of light and magic, sending waves of joy through him.

The ones in his room were thrown out of his window, exploding in his back garden with pretty tinkling noises. The larger shards caught the smudged moon in their surface, filling the garden with little lights like fairies dancing among the gravel and rogue weeds. The largest mirror crashed loudly, splitting in half and throwing wooden splinters about. A few neighbours glanced out their window curiously but he paid them no mind. He felt exhilarated. Unrestrained and free. He felt powerful and dangerous but light and happy all at the same time.

Hand-held make-up mirrors were thrown like frisbees against walls. One he threw high then smacked with a frying pan like a tennis ball. It soared across the kitchen, leaving a trail of glass shards, then exploded against the back door. He nodded smugly to himself and headed back into his dark hallway.

He caught his reflection in the sitting room mirror. He stopped. He stared.

It was the first thing he'd bought for himself when he'd moved into the house. He'd decided, before he'd even settled on the sort of seats or tables he wanted, that he would really like a large ornately patterned glass-frame mirror over the fireplace. He turned the frying pan over in his hand like a club. He'd had it for years.

He hated it.

With one good swing, he caught the centre of the mirror with the rim of the pan, denting the cooking instrument and shattering a great hole in the mirror. The middle cascaded down like a waterfall, loose pieces hitting the top of the fireplace and jumping out. They scratched his skin but in a way he didn't mind too much. He gaping hole sat where his face had been.

Excellent, he thought to himself, that's the last of them. He lowered the pan, pleased with his work.

With a scrape and a creaking noise, the mirror loosened from its holdings on the wall and fell forward. A sudden spike of fear hit him as it neared him. He barely had time to take a step back before the glass frame hit the ground and split into pieces, sharp pieces flying outward. He threw his arms up to cover his face, eyes squeezed closed.

Shards cut his skin and he felt something hit his ankle, ripping through his trouser leg and sock, the tender muscle around the front of the bone screaming in pain. Or maybe he screamed.

He let go of the pan handle, the skin of his hands shredded from tiny flying pieces. It hit the ground with a gong that rang through the house, followed by a metallic wobbling as it slowly settled down. His body stung all over. His palms were bruised and fingers beaded with blood.

He staggered back, suddenly aware of the cuts all over his body that bled freely. There was a huge red puddle around his foot. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, his rapidly beating heart suddenly muted and barely a feather against his ribs.

He fell back onto the floor, amazed by the huge triangle of glass jutting from the soft flesh where the base of his leg curved into the top of his foot. Blood pumped from the wound around it. His ears were ringing. He felt light headed. There was a lot of red.

Something buzzed, somewhere, not far off.

He frowned. It droned on.

His phone.

He managed to drag himself into the hallway, leaving a dark smear behind him. It was dark and his eyes refused to adjust. The world shook and pulsated in the dimness. Things stirred in corners and slipped in and out of dark shadows.

He reached up, arm heavy and uncoordinated. His palm hit the wall a few times, making a soft 'splat' sound. He thought it hurt, maybe, but he couldn't be sure. His hand wandered around until it met material. He patted his jacket before finding the hard rectangular lump where his phone was. He took a deep breath and yanked on the pocket until his jacket tipped enough for it to fall into his lap.

The bright screen seared his eyes, making him blink rapidly to get used to the assault of colour and light. It swam before his vision. He couldn't make out what was happening. The caller ID was fuzzy and the image nothing more than a blur.

He swiped the screen a few times, leaving red smears until it answered.

Someone's voice said something. He couldn't tell. He closed his eyes. The voice was louder now. Insistent.

Right.

He had to reply.

“Hey...” he managed, voice soft. Was it his voice? It seemed so far away...

The voice changed tone. He frowned.

“Youngjae?”

Some more words.

“Hey I... I think... I think I really... Made a mistake. Could...” His tongue felt heavy. “Could you call an ambulance?”

The voice may have said something more, but he couldn't tell. Everything was slow and heavy and muffled. The floor was cool on his cheek. Nothing hurt any more.

He out.

Soundtrack: Nightwish - A Final Dream