3- Mirror, Mirror
Psychosis.
Zelo's POV
Mirror, Mirror on the wall,
Who's the damnedest of us all?
For I find life in my own skin,
Disatisfies me to no end.
Mirror, when I scan your face,
I find scars around my wrists.
And shadowed eyes glare back at me,
Laced with maddened misery.
Mirror, mirror, I feel sick.
My body's brittle as a stick,
And even though I've grown so thin,
I still despise life in my skin.
Mirror, hanging on my wall,
Aren't I the damnedest of us all?
Rayne's poem reverberated with finality around the captivated room as she finished sharing her latest piece with the group leaving everyone sitting there in appreciative silence. I had listened, yes, I had listened to every word, and enjoyed it very much. But I just couldn't tear my eyes from the clock as it ticked, ticked, ticked round and round in a dizzying circle. The poem, the poem... it spoke of mirrors and the distorted views of a person on their own body. How fitting that the girl, so damaged from the cruelty of her fellow man, attempts to foreshadow at the lies of the people in this building.
Little did they know, that as I sat staring strangely transfixed with the simple ticking, ticking, ticking of the clock I was carrying the secrets of their "perfect" asylum in my mouth. Chewing them as a dog gnaws a bone, running them through my mind again, and again. If I chose to speak, which I wouldn't, I could unravel the lies of each person (can you guess who?) easily and expose them as the sad broken things they were.
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I had watched yesterday when my counselor came in, a young man with boring brown hair and a black scarf hanging loosely on his shoulders, late, the look of hatred that Kai had thrown at him. They didn't think I noticed, but I did, the way that he slid his bandaged wrist underneath his chair, grinding it against the hard steel that reinforced it and held it upright. Pushing and twisting and scraping until I glimpsed how the crimson river bled out over the snow white bandages, dying the filmy gauze.
He had relaxed, the terse expression on his face fading, the stiff body posture softening, and his hatred disappearing into a mild look of apathy. So that was his secret. The way he kept himself so calm in the face of adversity and always seemed to look through people as he skriiitched, skriiiitched in his sketchbook with that sharpened pencil that he often seemed to admire as the light caught the wicked tip...How sad. A boy who cannot live without spilling his own life source. You'll never guess who.
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And following our uneventful session, I had stayed to talk to this young man who often seemed to nearly drift off as if he were bored, perhaps without meaning to. He had asked me generic questions I had heard for many years: Wondering what I heard, and how the people influenced me, were they kind to me, and how often did I go along with what they said?
The people that he couldn't see, the people that he didn't believe in. He claimed to understand, and that's a lie. A sin. No one understands. His lies were well concealed behind his pleasant voice and smiling eyes. I assumed they were smiling since his face was covered by a clipboard. But, because he lied, I know that I am sane and should be released. I miss my hyung's. The time I spend here is pointless, with this boy who can't seem to survive without spilling his life source on the ground and this fake councilor who smiles with his eyes, handing out false promises of understanding and hope. You'll never guess who he is.
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And of course, the girl who so adamantly denied having any problems whatsoever, (she weighs 91 pounds) was a liar. I had walked from the cafeteria fifteen minutes exactly after lunch, walking to my room when I saw her disappear behind one of those idiotic curtains. Those stupid, monotonous curtains. They all look the same, so how was I to know that she hadn't gone into my room?
How was I to know that she had gone into the girl's restroom? So naïve to my location was I that I had followed the skeletal creature into the bathroom watching in silence as she lifted her shirt to her chest, examining with a disdainful look, her bony body. I had a clear view of each and every rib as it curved down her stomach, or lack there of, in a chaotic line of bones. Her jeans fell off of her hips which jutted painfully from her body, and she shook her head, sighing deeply.
Then, after checking her watch and and turning a shade whiter, she had hurried into the nearest stall, her disfigured form still apparent in the mirror. I had watched with an unnatural alertness, as she had leaned over the porcelain bowl, her fragile body heaving with each coughing retch. I heard the steady plip, plunk, plunk, of vomit hitting the water in time to her brutal heaves. Panting and gasping she had lifted her head from the toilet only to be overtaken by another attack so great that she had fallen to her knees and gripped the sides of the toilet as she expelled the contents of her stomach, noting with a strange sense of pity that I could count the thin disks of her exposed back.
The sight disturbed me for some reason, I can't fathom why, so I turned and left carrying knowledge of this pathetic facility housing a boy who can't seem to survive without spilling his life source on the ground, a fake councilor who smiles with his eyes, handing out false promises of understanding and hope and this sad little girl who destroys herself and her lovely voice by burning with bile. You'll never guess who she is.
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And so, today, I sat amongst the inspired faces of my peers, all requesting to hear the poem again as I stare transfixedly up at the clock as it ticks, ticks, ticks, in time to Kai's rasping scrapes against the abused flesh of his wrists... ticks, ticks, ticks, to the rythm of Youngjae's pencil as it wrote down the symptoms of my disorder... as it ticks ticks ticks along with Sulyeons' retches... ticking, ticking, ticking a beat to the lyrical words of Rayne's poem...
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who's the damnedest of us all?
I'll never tell.
Well, that is all for now. I am currently brain-dead from writing. I plan on making the next chapter at least a little more interesting. I'm sorry i'm failing as an author TvT I WILL DO BETTER STARTING... When I make people happy with my stories. Aha, anyway! Criticism is loved, subscribtions are motivation, and la-di-da my little readers. STAY INTERESTED! ^^ <3
- Serenity
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