Mirror Maze
Title: Mirror Maze
Pairing: Yamapi-centric
Rating: G
Words: 2468
Summary: What can one do when one is shown oneself, over and over and over, in lives one had never occupied if only if only if only? Based off Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes, this story is a spinoff of one of the carnival's eerie attractions. If you've read it, the story will be easier to appreciate but should still be understandable without. Originally posted here.
Yamashita was staying the weekend with his grandparents, a monumental luxury for the likes of him, when he saw the flyer: “COMING OCTOBER 1st!” Tomorrow, he casually noted. “Cooger and Dark’s Carnival!” This was followed by a list of typical carnival attractions - nothing special. But a strange sensation started in his chest - a sort of gentle tug - when he read it and he idly wondered why. Fingering the flyer, he looked off into the distance then folded the paper absentmindedly and put it in his pocket.
~~~~
It was late, his grandparents were asleep and he was out walking, going nowhere in particular. The weather was perfect for his midnight wander - warm just verging on a cool that brought pleasant goose bumps up his arms from lack of jacket and a slight breeze ruffling his hair. An inexorable calm had overtaken him at the turn of midnight - his mind still as the mirrored surface of an underground pool. He went where his feet took him, drinking in the peaceful night. And then, maybe minutes, maybe hours later (though he thought perhaps he’d heard it all along and hadn’t known it,) he heard the music, a siren call reaching out its tendrils of sound to him, coaxing him along, stroking his cheek and murmuring into his ear. Moonlight through the trees patterned his slightly upturned face as he went. The song was sad, lamenting some affliction that Yamashita felt he must share in some part, and he was impelled to follow the call.
It led him to a field filled with shapeless forms - billows of cloth here, a face there, iron rods, a pair of legs, all blurring into the night. And, in the middle of it all a man, standing un-smudged by the inky night that appeared to surround only the carnival itself, seemingly conducting the orchestra of construction. Tent poles were raised by stealthy shadows, not a single noise reverberating in the night but the wind in the trees and Yamashita’s heart beating in his mouth. The silence was unnerving and for the first time Yamashita was shaken a bit out of his reverie, the unsettling hush weighing heavily on him. He felt his eyes close, out of his control, and when he opened them he saw a carnival empty. Nothing but black, black tents that seemed to suck the starlight in and spit nothing back out. He felt suddenly alone. He took a step backward. Then another. More, until he turned around and ran.
~~~~
He lay in bed, pondering the stillness of his heart, the quiet that surrounded his sleeping place and the comforting peace of his grandparents’ house - knowing they were there, that he was not alone. Was it a dream? He wondered. Until finally, he drifted into a seamless sleep, full of dreams that would dissipate upon waking but leave a filthy residue nonetheless.
In the morning he woke with difficulty, sleep catching at his limbs until he struggled hard enough to break its hold. He spent the early half of the day dragging himself along, trying to shake the strange feelings evoked in the night.
Against his better judgement, he agreed with his grandparents’ plan to attend the carnival that day. His grandfather seemed strangely excited about it, the excitement bringing a youthful air to his face. How could Yamashita deny that? Besides, in the night was just a dream. A dream. And yet. But no, he pushed the thoughts away. A carnival was a fun occasion and he would have fun.
~~~~
Not a tremor of trepidation passed through him as he entered the carnival. He was pleasantly warm under a blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds. A sense of ease overtook him. Nothing bad could happen on a day like this - evil required dark, stormy nights or at the very least a deep grey haze through which one could barely make out the sun. He wandered through, watching a man swallow a sword, a woman contort herself to fit in tiny box. He saw the fat lady sing, and watched a gypsy give a tarot reading to a pretty girl in red. He rode a couple rickety rides and then found himself standing, slack-jawed, in front of structure. The entrance was mirrored. No, that wasn’t right. The entrance was mirrors. He took a hesitant step forward. His heart beat fast and he found himself standing in the entrance, unsure of how he had gotten there. The sounds of the carnival had faded in the background and he took another slow step forward. He thought he saw something move inside. Another step. There. He was certain he’d seen something beckon him. He walked curiously into the maze and watched his reflection shift in the mirrors: tall, short, wide, upside down. But as he moved farther in, he noticed other differences: his face worn and haggard, his face glowing with happiness, his face with tears streaming. On and on and on and he found that he knew them, knew them all - not intimately. He knew them as ghosts of himself, living lives not his but, yet, his nonetheless.
What can one do when one is shown oneself, over and over and over, in lives one had never occupied if only if only if only? Yamashita should have been prepared for this, having been portrayed in magazine after drama after concert, photo after soul-sucking photo. But those were only copies of moments in time which were not him, were him but were not. These mirrors, however, were him, were not him, were him. And what can one do to prepare oneself for that?
Nothing.
The mirror maze did not just dole out its divinations to everyone. That gift, or curse, was revealed only to those truly troubled by turning points in their lives - ways never taken, words never said, actions never followed through with. And it concerned only those decisions that could be implemented by the one shown. Nonetheless these mirrors promulgated hundreds of tangents - what if what if what if: What if his mother hadn’t had the strength to go on after their father left? What if their father’s departure had warped Rina into a wild whirlwind lifestyle of drugs and sex and it had broken their little family even more? It was nothing Yamashita could have changed but still the questions and others like it burned in him. He reached his hand out toward his outreaching hand, felt it pass through nothing and wondered - if he kept going would he be able to live another life? Would the him he replaced take his place? Could he condemn his other self to living a life un-chosen? His head swam with the possibilities, the paradoxes. He withdrew his hand. Stared at himself staring at himself in perplexed anxiety. He needed out - it was too much. He couldn’t touch the mirrors, though, for fear of transposing himself into another life. Suddenly he felt claustrophobic, or was it metaphysically agoraphobic? Cold fear welled up from his stomach to lodge itself in his throat and, though surrounded, he felt utterly alone.
Suddenly he heard his name being called by a familiar voice. Grandmother, he thought, and a little crack of warmth threatened to break up the bundle of fear. “Here!” he called, voice shaking. “Here!” he called again, louder. But then the fear renewed its grip and he was afraid that his grandmother would get caught by the mirrors and be suddenly replaced by a grandmother he’d never known and it would be all his fault and he trembled. But suddenly she was by his side, smiling up at him and the warmth melted his fear as she took his hand and led him out.
He followed his grandparents in a daze. Despite his fear of the mirror maze, his mind kept wandering back to his other selves, back to all the what if’s they presented him. Would he be happier if he had never joined Johnny’s? Would he be happier if had quit years ago to seriously attend school? Was he happy now? As he walked, he absently nibbled at the sweet his grandmother had bought him. His eyes would alight on a spectacle only to slide right off into his own world again. Why was he still here? He was not enjoying the carnival. He desperately wanted to leave. No, he desperately wanted to have never encountered this godforsaken carnival.
That’s when he noticed he was alone amidst the crowd - or perhaps not. A familiar man faced him, dressed in a suit complete with cravat and a top hat. Why familiar? He racked his bewildered brain. Glimpses of pale skin and dark fabric swept across his mind and he placed the man - the orchestrator of the silent symphony in the night. Not a dream. He took an involuntary step back.
The man stepped forward and with a flourished bow gave Yamashita a card. Yamashita’s eyes couldn’t help but follow the exposed skin at the wrist of the man’s hand and the partial picture see saw exposed there as he bowed his head and took the man’s card.
The man, Mr. Dark the card read and the name seemed familiar, caught Yamashita’s eyes and smiled. “You like?” he asked, pulling up his sleeve a bit to reveal exotic looking inking. Upon closer inspection Yamashita saw his own face reflected up at him.
“W-what do you want?” he whispered, dragging his eyes away from his image to settle restlessly on the man’s face.
“Whatever makes you happy,” Mr. Dark said with a smile that never made it farther than his lips.
Mr. Dark slung his arm around Yamashita’s shoulders and walked him around the carnival, pointing out attractions he’d already seen until they ended up back where he’d started - the mirror maze.
“You’re attracted to it, aren’t you? I can feel it - here,” he said and tapped Yamashita’s likeness on his wrist.
A lump formed in Yamashita’s throat.
“It doesn’t cost you anything, I swear.”
“My mom said, ‘Nothing in life is free.”
“Ah, well that’s true, I suppose,” his voice was all silk. “But this, it’s worth the cost, isn’t it? This life? For another? Doesn’t it balance out, really? Nothing to lose because it’s still you, after all.” Mr. Dark looked intently at the slack mouth, the crumpled brow, felt a sure win. “Think about it. We’ll be here a while longer. I’ll be waiting.” And with that he was gone with not even a whisper or a wrinkle in Yamashita’s t-shirt.
~~~~
And Yamashita did think about it - all night and all the next day. Missing concerned looks from his grandparents’ at his lack of response. His night was filled with vivid dreams? Nightmares? Prophecies? He didn’t know but it consumed him. He was feverish as he found himself out in the night tracing a familiar path until he found himself, once again, facing the sinister carnival - open, unmanned and waiting for him. He could feel it.
He could feel himself - muscles tense from his careening inner monologues. His carefree face had ever been just a veneer to the troubled mind beneath it. He had never thought it before, whether he was happy or not. Whether his life was worthy of someone’s sympathy. Pitying someone is, indeed, pitiful but being the object of pity is only more pathetic. (*) And yet where had the pity come from? He had chosen this life. He didn’t recall ever being truly unhappy in his life and yet, and yet, here he was wondering, was he happy? “Whatever makes you happy,” the man had said, Mr. Dark. He found himself facing the entrance to the mirror maze. Several strides took him just inside to the vanilla mirrors but after a couple turns he could see his doppelgangers watching him. What would make him happy, he wondered? He skipped over the haggard faces that seemed to be begging him for a release from their self-imposed prisons. Stopped in front of a smiling face. But, he thought, I’ve smiled that way before. What if it’s a momentary joy? A friend has remembered my birthday, my mother has told a funny joke. What if the rest of his life was filled with hardship? He stepped back. Whatever makes me happy? Another step back. Isn’t all life this way? Aren’t all people this way - filled with regrets over those actions or un-actions? But that’s life isn’t it? If one never knows regret, one never knows satisfaction. If one never hates, one never loves. If one is never sad, one is never happy. Whatever makes me happy?
I am happy, he realized with a start. I’m happy to have my regrets, my hate, my sadness - happy for my satisfaction, loves and life. He carefully backed out of the maze without touching the mirrors. I am happy, he realized, and accepted.
His happiness was a constant struggle to be better, to become something better. He pushed and challenged until he felt something might break and it was only then that he would back off. And then another project would arise and he would see another crack in himself and would be off again - pushing, challenging, breaking; it was exhausting. But it was his choice. Did it stem from unhappiness? Or was it just a quest, one he had devoted his life to? And at the end a holy grail perhaps. What was he hoping to attain? Happiness. No, something in him whispered. Not happiness because the seeking made him happy. Perhaps peace. Because he accepted that this was who he was, a quester, and it was his joy in life. Peace would never be his, he decided, but happiness was already there. Utopia never leads to satisfaction.
He felt an urge, a challenge and he accepted it, too. Reaching for the first mirrors, he shoved them, hard, and watched them splinter and crack and topple through the maze, saw tiny pieces of himself staring, shattered, up at him. The smug smile of accomplishment and relief fell off his face when he looked up into the eyes of a very silent, angry Mr. Dark. And he fled, tripping over ropes and poles and invisible tidbits until he found himself on his hands and knees in front of the man, the devil, the specter in the night. The rage had never left his face. Yamashita sat back on his feet and looked up at the man. The exertion had left him clean, washed of all emotion as he stared into Dark’s dark eyes. And he realized that there was no longer fear - that there hadn’t been. He had run on instinct, blind and pure. And he smiled as he watched ink bleed from Mr. Dark’s wrist to drip to the ground.
*Credit : Hope_rei's translation of Yamapi's nikki #2115
Thank you to misticloud and indian_monsoon for letting me rant about this fic. I really enjoyed writing it even though it felt like pulling teeth.
Pairing: Yamapi-centric
Rating: G
Words: 2468
Summary: What can one do when one is shown oneself, over and over and over, in lives one had never occupied if only if only if only? Based off Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes, this story is a spinoff of one of the carnival's eerie attractions. If you've read it, the story will be easier to appreciate but should still be understandable without. Originally posted here.
Yamashita was staying the weekend with his grandparents, a monumental luxury for the likes of him, when he saw the flyer: “COMING OCTOBER 1st!” Tomorrow, he casually noted. “Cooger and Dark’s Carnival!” This was followed by a list of typical carnival attractions - nothing special. But a strange sensation started in his chest - a sort of gentle tug - when he read it and he idly wondered why. Fingering the flyer, he looked off into the distance then folded the paper absentmindedly and put it in his pocket.
~~~~
It was late, his grandparents were asleep and he was out walking, going nowhere in particular. The weather was perfect for his midnight wander - warm just verging on a cool that brought pleasant goose bumps up his arms from lack of jacket and a slight breeze ruffling his hair. An inexorable calm had overtaken him at the turn of midnight - his mind still as the mirrored surface of an underground pool. He went where his feet took him, drinking in the peaceful night. And then, maybe minutes, maybe hours later (though he thought perhaps he’d heard it all along and hadn’t known it,) he heard the music, a siren call reaching out its tendrils of sound to him, coaxing him along, stroking his cheek and murmuring into his ear. Moonlight through the trees patterned his slightly upturned face as he went. The song was sad, lamenting some affliction that Yamashita felt he must share in some part, and he was impelled to follow the call.
It led him to a field filled with shapeless forms - billows of cloth here, a face there, iron rods, a pair of legs, all blurring into the night. And, in the middle of it all a man, standing un-smudged by the inky night that appeared to surround only the carnival itself, seemingly conducting the orchestra of construction. Tent poles were raised by stealthy shadows, not a single noise reverberating in the night but the wind in the trees and Yamashita’s heart beating in his mouth. The silence was unnerving and for the first time Yamashita was shaken a bit out of his reverie, the unsettling hush weighing heavily on him. He felt his eyes close, out of his control, and when he opened them he saw a carnival empty. Nothing but black, black tents that seemed to suck the starlight in and spit nothing back out. He felt suddenly alone. He took a step backward. Then another. More, until he turned around and ran.
~~~~
He lay in bed, pondering the stillness of his heart, the quiet that surrounded his sleeping place and the comforting peace of his grandparents’ house - knowing they were there, that he was not alone. Was it a dream? He wondered. Until finally, he drifted into a seamless sleep, full of dreams that would dissipate upon waking but leave a filthy residue nonetheless.
In the morning he woke with difficulty, sleep catching at his limbs until he struggled hard enough to break its hold. He spent the early half of the day dragging himself along, trying to shake the strange feelings evoked in the night.
Against his better judgement, he agreed with his grandparents’ plan to attend the carnival that day. His grandfather seemed strangely excited about it, the excitement bringing a youthful air to his face. How could Yamashita deny that? Besides, in the night was just a dream. A dream. And yet. But no, he pushed the thoughts away. A carnival was a fun occasion and he would have fun.
~~~~
Not a tremor of trepidation passed through him as he entered the carnival. He was pleasantly warm under a blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds. A sense of ease overtook him. Nothing bad could happen on a day like this - evil required dark, stormy nights or at the very least a deep grey haze through which one could barely make out the sun. He wandered through, watching a man swallow a sword, a woman contort herself to fit in tiny box. He saw the fat lady sing, and watched a gypsy give a tarot reading to a pretty girl in red. He rode a couple rickety rides and then found himself standing, slack-jawed, in front of structure. The entrance was mirrored. No, that wasn’t right. The entrance was mirrors. He took a hesitant step forward. His heart beat fast and he found himself standing in the entrance, unsure of how he had gotten there. The sounds of the carnival had faded in the background and he took another slow step forward. He thought he saw something move inside. Another step. There. He was certain he’d seen something beckon him. He walked curiously into the maze and watched his reflection shift in the mirrors: tall, short, wide, upside down. But as he moved farther in, he noticed other differences: his face worn and haggard, his face glowing with happiness, his face with tears streaming. On and on and on and he found that he knew them, knew them all - not intimately. He knew them as ghosts of himself, living lives not his but, yet, his nonetheless.
What can one do when one is shown oneself, over and over and over, in lives one had never occupied if only if only if only? Yamashita should have been prepared for this, having been portrayed in magazine after drama after concert, photo after soul-sucking photo. But those were only copies of moments in time which were not him, were him but were not. These mirrors, however, were him, were not him, were him. And what can one do to prepare oneself for that?
Nothing.
The mirror maze did not just dole out its divinations to everyone. That gift, or curse, was revealed only to those truly troubled by turning points in their lives - ways never taken, words never said, actions never followed through with. And it concerned only those decisions that could be implemented by the one shown. Nonetheless these mirrors promulgated hundreds of tangents - what if what if what if: What if his mother hadn’t had the strength to go on after their father left? What if their father’s departure had warped Rina into a wild whirlwind lifestyle of drugs and sex and it had broken their little family even more? It was nothing Yamashita could have changed but still the questions and others like it burned in him. He reached his hand out toward his outreaching hand, felt it pass through nothing and wondered - if he kept going would he be able to live another life? Would the him he replaced take his place? Could he condemn his other self to living a life un-chosen? His head swam with the possibilities, the paradoxes. He withdrew his hand. Stared at himself staring at himself in perplexed anxiety. He needed out - it was too much. He couldn’t touch the mirrors, though, for fear of transposing himself into another life. Suddenly he felt claustrophobic, or was it metaphysically agoraphobic? Cold fear welled up from his stomach to lodge itself in his throat and, though surrounded, he felt utterly alone.
Suddenly he heard his name being called by a familiar voice. Grandmother, he thought, and a little crack of warmth threatened to break up the bundle of fear. “Here!” he called, voice shaking. “Here!” he called again, louder. But then the fear renewed its grip and he was afraid that his grandmother would get caught by the mirrors and be suddenly replaced by a grandmother he’d never known and it would be all his fault and he trembled. But suddenly she was by his side, smiling up at him and the warmth melted his fear as she took his hand and led him out.
He followed his grandparents in a daze. Despite his fear of the mirror maze, his mind kept wandering back to his other selves, back to all the what if’s they presented him. Would he be happier if he had never joined Johnny’s? Would he be happier if had quit years ago to seriously attend school? Was he happy now? As he walked, he absently nibbled at the sweet his grandmother had bought him. His eyes would alight on a spectacle only to slide right off into his own world again. Why was he still here? He was not enjoying the carnival. He desperately wanted to leave. No, he desperately wanted to have never encountered this godforsaken carnival.
That’s when he noticed he was alone amidst the crowd - or perhaps not. A familiar man faced him, dressed in a suit complete with cravat and a top hat. Why familiar? He racked his bewildered brain. Glimpses of pale skin and dark fabric swept across his mind and he placed the man - the orchestrator of the silent symphony in the night. Not a dream. He took an involuntary step back.
The man stepped forward and with a flourished bow gave Yamashita a card. Yamashita’s eyes couldn’t help but follow the exposed skin at the wrist of the man’s hand and the partial picture see saw exposed there as he bowed his head and took the man’s card.
The man, Mr. Dark the card read and the name seemed familiar, caught Yamashita’s eyes and smiled. “You like?” he asked, pulling up his sleeve a bit to reveal exotic looking inking. Upon closer inspection Yamashita saw his own face reflected up at him.
“W-what do you want?” he whispered, dragging his eyes away from his image to settle restlessly on the man’s face.
“Whatever makes you happy,” Mr. Dark said with a smile that never made it farther than his lips.
Mr. Dark slung his arm around Yamashita’s shoulders and walked him around the carnival, pointing out attractions he’d already seen until they ended up back where he’d started - the mirror maze.
“You’re attracted to it, aren’t you? I can feel it - here,” he said and tapped Yamashita’s likeness on his wrist.
A lump formed in Yamashita’s throat.
“It doesn’t cost you anything, I swear.”
“My mom said, ‘Nothing in life is free.”
“Ah, well that’s true, I suppose,” his voice was all silk. “But this, it’s worth the cost, isn’t it? This life? For another? Doesn’t it balance out, really? Nothing to lose because it’s still you, after all.” Mr. Dark looked intently at the slack mouth, the crumpled brow, felt a sure win. “Think about it. We’ll be here a while longer. I’ll be waiting.” And with that he was gone with not even a whisper or a wrinkle in Yamashita’s t-shirt.
~~~~
And Yamashita did think about it - all night and all the next day. Missing concerned looks from his grandparents’ at his lack of response. His night was filled with vivid dreams? Nightmares? Prophecies? He didn’t know but it consumed him. He was feverish as he found himself out in the night tracing a familiar path until he found himself, once again, facing the sinister carnival - open, unmanned and waiting for him. He could feel it.
He could feel himself - muscles tense from his careening inner monologues. His carefree face had ever been just a veneer to the troubled mind beneath it. He had never thought it before, whether he was happy or not. Whether his life was worthy of someone’s sympathy. Pitying someone is, indeed, pitiful but being the object of pity is only more pathetic. (*) And yet where had the pity come from? He had chosen this life. He didn’t recall ever being truly unhappy in his life and yet, and yet, here he was wondering, was he happy? “Whatever makes you happy,” the man had said, Mr. Dark. He found himself facing the entrance to the mirror maze. Several strides took him just inside to the vanilla mirrors but after a couple turns he could see his doppelgangers watching him. What would make him happy, he wondered? He skipped over the haggard faces that seemed to be begging him for a release from their self-imposed prisons. Stopped in front of a smiling face. But, he thought, I’ve smiled that way before. What if it’s a momentary joy? A friend has remembered my birthday, my mother has told a funny joke. What if the rest of his life was filled with hardship? He stepped back. Whatever makes me happy? Another step back. Isn’t all life this way? Aren’t all people this way - filled with regrets over those actions or un-actions? But that’s life isn’t it? If one never knows regret, one never knows satisfaction. If one never hates, one never loves. If one is never sad, one is never happy. Whatever makes me happy?
I am happy, he realized with a start. I’m happy to have my regrets, my hate, my sadness - happy for my satisfaction, loves and life. He carefully backed out of the maze without touching the mirrors. I am happy, he realized, and accepted.
His happiness was a constant struggle to be better, to become something better. He pushed and challenged until he felt something might break and it was only then that he would back off. And then another project would arise and he would see another crack in himself and would be off again - pushing, challenging, breaking; it was exhausting. But it was his choice. Did it stem from unhappiness? Or was it just a quest, one he had devoted his life to? And at the end a holy grail perhaps. What was he hoping to attain? Happiness. No, something in him whispered. Not happiness because the seeking made him happy. Perhaps peace. Because he accepted that this was who he was, a quester, and it was his joy in life. Peace would never be his, he decided, but happiness was already there. Utopia never leads to satisfaction.
He felt an urge, a challenge and he accepted it, too. Reaching for the first mirrors, he shoved them, hard, and watched them splinter and crack and topple through the maze, saw tiny pieces of himself staring, shattered, up at him. The smug smile of accomplishment and relief fell off his face when he looked up into the eyes of a very silent, angry Mr. Dark. And he fled, tripping over ropes and poles and invisible tidbits until he found himself on his hands and knees in front of the man, the devil, the specter in the night. The rage had never left his face. Yamashita sat back on his feet and looked up at the man. The exertion had left him clean, washed of all emotion as he stared into Dark’s dark eyes. And he realized that there was no longer fear - that there hadn’t been. He had run on instinct, blind and pure. And he smiled as he watched ink bleed from Mr. Dark’s wrist to drip to the ground.
*Credit : Hope_rei's translation of Yamapi's nikki #2115
Thank you to misticloud and indian_monsoon for letting me rant about this fic. I really enjoyed writing it even though it felt like pulling teeth.