--
The boy in the mirror is disgusting.
Gigantic. Enormous. Ugly.
He's the image of someone with absolutely no self discipline, who consumes whatever he likes, whenever he likes. Someone with no control at all.
But I have control, I do.
Just not enough.

I hate my reflection, detest it.
It's disgustingly truthful, shows me how little progress I've actually made, although it's nearing two months since I started to take control over my diet.
I want to break it, destroy it, make it go away.
I push at the boy in the mirror. He pushes back. 
And suddenly I'm angry, raging, and I don't know why.

I hit the boy, hit him hard, and tiny crack lines appear on his face.
Again, and his face splits, shattering. My knuckles are bleeding, but I don't care, because blood has weight, too. 
I d it again, again, over and over, attacking the boy until he no longer has a recognizable face, his arms are broken, his body destroyed. 
Red liquid is running down my arms, staining my sleeves. Somehow, I don't care.
I continue, hitting, attacking, beating, even though the boy is no longer recognizable, but I want to get rid of him, emaciate him, ruin him until there is nothing of him left because he is ugly, so disgusting, so huge, he shouldn't even be alive.

Then the boy collapses, and he falls onto the ground, shattering into millions of razor edged pieces that cut me and stab me, but I don't care.

"Kibum! Oh god Kibum, what happened?" 

And I realise, broken glass and metal strewn all around me, that the boy is me.
I've destroyed myself. 

--

Breaking glass, shattering. Loud noises and sobs.
Do you know how scary it is to come home and hear that?

The bathroom is a mess of glass shards and broken metal frame. An empty piece of wall, cleaner than the rest, where the mirror used to hang.
And Kibum.

He stands in the middle, rooted to the spot, tears streaming down his face and blood streaming down his arm.
It's terrifying, he looks distraught, dazed, too far gone into that little world of his where I can't follow, can never follow.

Did the mirror break? Did Key break it by accident? What on earth happened?

I find myself acting on auto pilot, my brain telling me that the first thing to do is to get Kibum out of the mess, clean up his wounds, calm him down. Moving into the bathroom carefully, avoiding the glass, I pick him up gently.

He stiffens immediately. "Don't...don't touch me." His voice is raspy, thick with tears. He fidgets, breathing hard.

"Relax, Kibum, I'll just bring you out of here. It's okay, you'll be okay." 

Trying to fight my own anxiety, I move fast, bringing him out into the living room, setting him down on the sofa, speaking all the while in what I hope is a soothing voice.  Thankfully, there doesn't seem to be any glass trapped in his skin.

I carry out what first aid I can, cleaning and disinfecting the wounds, covering them up with sterile gauze and bandages where the skin has broken. Key retreats into the state he was in prior to my picking him up, shell shocked, tearing silently. He looks as if he doesn't know what he's just done. He looks exhausted, the blood a stark contrast to his pale features. 

It's only after I finish that he starts to cry audibly, chest heaving, shoulders shaking. I rub circles on his back, feeling his ribs through the shirt. He hasn't been eating well lately, I suspect it's because of the stress from comeback preparations, the stress from a media scrutinized, packed life in general.

"It's okay, Key-ah, it's okay. Any problems you have, you can tell me, alright?" 

Eyes closing, he leans back, tears still clinging to his long lashes as he slowly drops into sleep.
I get up, cover him with a blanket before going to clear up the mess in the bathroom.

Sleep well, Kibum, sleep and forget all the troubles that have been making you unhappy.

A/n: I have this problem with writing stories partway and realising they're actually kind of silly :/