The tiled floors of the small bathroom were cool to the touch. A wisp of what had formerly been a person, and still technically, was walked in with a low head, turned the faucet and splashed the icy water on his face. Smoke, he called himself. The water cascading down into the sink had turned a red-brown colour, as Smoke wiped his face.
For him, work was easy to find but not so easy to execute. This had become a routine of sorts. To the restroom he scurried, wiping the blood off his face, rubbing the red out of his vision.
He glanced up to the mirror and found that the reflection was…well, not correct. The background, at the least, was warped with bright colours that one would expect to find at a carnival. And, most curiously, the person in the mirror was not Smoke.
It was a thing, at the least. A boy? Perhaps nine years of age. He looked cherubic, with shining eyes and a bright smile. He looked like a pathetic, poor little British boy. But his appearance seemed to shift like Smoke had forgotten to put in his contacts. He blinked as Smoke gaped at him. The thing in the mirror seemed to say something. The words were as warped as his background.
The thing's face darkened as he said something more, but he hid it with a playful grin.
“I’m sorry?” Smoke found himself saying in response. The being paused in his unintelligible chattering. “I really am sorry, I can’t understand you?”
The being nodded, seeming to understand. He pressed his hand to the mirror as if it was just a window separating them.
Then, he clenched his fist, and it seemed to go right through. Smoke froze. His boss would have been fascinated, but he had seen one too many horrors in his life. That he could remember, anyway. About seven years prior he had suffered a bout of amnesia and lost most- if not all-of his memories.
The being’s other hand pressed through the mirror as well, and Smoke couldn’t breathe. The pale hands of the mystery boy slowly inched forward, shook slightly, and thrust forward to grasp at his throat.
Wildly, the Something jerked his head into the mirror, Smoke’s breath hitching in his throat as his bruised head throbbed. Instead, he fell through.
Red. Everything was red. Why was everything red?
The colours of bright fuchsia, yellow, sharp blues and burnt orange had faded away, leaving only blood-red. The colour of a half-eaten pomegranate.
Smoke’s chest fell up and down as fast as the thoughts in his head.
WhatdidIdotohimwhatdidIdotohimwhatdidIdotohim.
Blood gushed down his face.
“What did I do to you?” Smoke cried. The being smiled wickedly.
The boy held his prized dagger, the only thing Smoke had owned when he’d woke up in an unfamiliar world.
“Don’t you see?” it said. The dagger pierced Smoke’s abdomen, the being grinning savagely as he left it, and he bit back a yelp as it went on.
“You are-”354Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsgN03dFaR8
His larynx refused to let air pass through. It wouldn't. The back of his throat held the acrid smell of horror, disgust and vomit. He was going to die, wasn't he?
For the second time, something in him whispered. A life or a life. A death for a death.
Horror coiled around his lungs, strangling him. It tightened and tightened and tightened and tightened. It hurt. Fuck, it really fucking hurts.
The mirror, he told himself as struggled to his feet. His hands trembled as they held back blood. There must be something in the mirror. 354Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmiIi5PJ2QM
In the mirror, was nothing of any worry. It was just him. Smoke stood in the mirror, struggling to hold back tears. A reddened neck, bleeding in his chest where his unknown scar and tattooed flower, and forever worried blue-grey eyes (a sharp juxtaposition with the rest of his dangerous appearance, he was told).
When he blinked, he saw a devil in the mirror. When he blinked again, it was gone.
And what terrified him was that he wasn't sure that the devil was something other than him...
----
Name: Smoke. Likely had a name before, but does not remember it. His employer seems to believe his name is "Avenging Angel," and Smoke treats it as a title he does not like.
Age: ~21. Is unsure of himself.
Class+Race+Level: Fallen Aasamiar, Sorcerer (Shadow Magic) 4, Rogue (Assassin) 9
Appearance: Almond-coloured skin, lanky but athletic build, scarred all over his hands and chest. Blue-grey eyes with eyebags. Dark brown hair that is semi-long, put in a messy ponytail. Has a huge scar on his chest which is surrounded with a tattoo of flowery meadow. Hands calloused.
Personality: Cautious, and careful. Realist, stubborn and quietly proud. Longs for a family he can not remember. Charismatic.
354Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqaWUhRSpnB
alternate ending to the story:
His head hit into the glass. He held his throbbing forehead whilst staring at the thing in the mirror.
"What the fuck," Smoke murmured.
ns 15.158.61.20da2
