Deleted Member 68015
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- Apr 20, 2025
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The room was dark, but he could tell it wasn’t midnight. There was that particular chill that came with early dawn—a breeze slipping through the cracked window, nosing its way across his bare arms. He lay there, eyes open, unmoving.
"Fuck, even my sleep schedule is LTN," he muttered to himself. The words dropped into the quiet like a pebble into a still pond. No echo. Just stillness.
He stood, each step a opressed with gravity. As he reached for the glass, he froze.
Not because of the breeze.
there, in the mirror, stood someone else.
It wasn’t him. Not really.
Tall, Wide Clavicles, Lean.
The eyes, rivaling Chico and the jaw, sharper than Gandy. That forward growth would make a native american look like a table's surface.
He stood still, breath caught in his chest. The reflection stared back— silent. A man who doesn't need to try. Who is chosen.
And for one moment—a flicker—he believed it.
He stood straighter. Tilted his head just right. Maybe if he could hold it, maybe if he just—
The angle shifted.
The illusion cracked. The mirror told the truth.
It was just him. Skinny. Hollowed-out face. Acne scars. Messy hair glued to a scalp that betrayed him more each year. Pale skin str. No eyes of steel, just ones sunken and tired.
He looked down at his hand.
Still holding nothing. The glass of water untouched.
He sat on the edge of the bed. The cold breeze came again, harsher now. Mocking.
He looked over to the drawer.
Half-open.
The 9mm CZ 75 lay there, still and quiet, like a thought waiting too long in the back of the mind.
He didn’t move toward it. Didn’t cry. Just stared. At the gun. At his hands. At the now-empty mirror.
he knew it would come back tomorrow, or the day after.
And lie to him again.
But not today.
He reached for the glass. Drank the water.
It was warm.
"Fuck, even my sleep schedule is LTN," he muttered to himself. The words dropped into the quiet like a pebble into a still pond. No echo. Just stillness.
He stood, each step a opressed with gravity. As he reached for the glass, he froze.
Not because of the breeze.
there, in the mirror, stood someone else.
It wasn’t him. Not really.
Tall, Wide Clavicles, Lean.
The eyes, rivaling Chico and the jaw, sharper than Gandy. That forward growth would make a native american look like a table's surface.
He stood still, breath caught in his chest. The reflection stared back— silent. A man who doesn't need to try. Who is chosen.
And for one moment—a flicker—he believed it.
He stood straighter. Tilted his head just right. Maybe if he could hold it, maybe if he just—
The angle shifted.
The illusion cracked. The mirror told the truth.
It was just him. Skinny. Hollowed-out face. Acne scars. Messy hair glued to a scalp that betrayed him more each year. Pale skin str. No eyes of steel, just ones sunken and tired.
He looked down at his hand.
Still holding nothing. The glass of water untouched.
He sat on the edge of the bed. The cold breeze came again, harsher now. Mocking.
He looked over to the drawer.
Half-open.
The 9mm CZ 75 lay there, still and quiet, like a thought waiting too long in the back of the mind.
He didn’t move toward it. Didn’t cry. Just stared. At the gun. At his hands. At the now-empty mirror.
he knew it would come back tomorrow, or the day after.
And lie to him again.
But not today.
He reached for the glass. Drank the water.
It was warm.
