Drabble - Mirror
So. I have a test tomorrow which I haven't finished studying for. What do I do? I decide to write a drabble. And while writing, I manage to burn my dinner.
...........................
*kicks self*
I feel brilliant, oh so brilliant. ><
Anyway, hope you guys like it. *goes off to poke at fish and veggies*
Mirror
Cloud remembers the first time he woke up after he died. He had sat up in his bed, gasping as though he had almost drowned. He could remember, and almost feel the deceptively strong tendrils of the Lifestream wrapped around his ankles, pulling him downwards before some other force had hauled him violently away, slamming him back into his body with a sickening thud.
He remembers people screaming, fainting, cursing. There was a stampede around his bed. The dead do not come back to life. Especially those with almost every bone in their body broken after being thrown from and trampled by a horse in a hunting accident. He sat on his bed, disoriented, staring at his hands, feeling his heart thumping in his chest.
He should have died. Why was he here? Why was he still alive?
They told him later that his mother had killed herself barely hours before, crazed by her grief. Poisoned herself and died with her arms wrapped tight around his corpse. Her precious baby. He remembers wondering why, if he had to come back to life, couldn’t he have done it earlier.
He remembers getting dressed for his mother’s funeral. He remembers catching sight of his reflection in the mirror. He remembers the stories his mother used to tell him as a child during the cold winters when they huddled together by the fire with mugs of hot cocoa, sharing a thick blanket and pretending they were explorers lost in the snow.
‘…And suddenly, the traveler’s gaze shifted to the mirror directly behind the maiden’s shoulder. The only reflection there was his own face. He turned pale and started to back away. The maiden noticed that he was no longer looking at her, and turned to see what was distracting him. She screamed when she saw the mirror, because she wasn’t there. She was a ghost, and ghosts had no tangible form to appear in mirrors...’
He reached out with a trembling hand and touched the surface of the mirror. As his right hand ran over the face of the reflection, his left hand mirrored its actions, tugging and pulling at his hair, his ears, his lips, his chin.
Tangible.
Solid.
He slammed a fist into the mirror as the tears finally started to flow, tears of grief for his mother and for himself.
He shouldn’t be here.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Time passes endlessly. Days become years become decades become centuries. He dies and wakes up, again and again in a sort of vicious cycle.
Sometimes he wonders whether he would still look like this if he had died when he was older, say when he was fifty. It seemed as though time had stopped for him after the first time he had died when he was barely out of his teens. Since then, his body, as though in defiance to his immortality, had refused to age, retaining the exact appearance he had that fateful day, one spring lifetimes ago, when he had kissed his mother goodbye for the last time and joined the hunt for fun.
He lives and dies and lives again. He gets assassinated. He gets caught in crossfires, using his body to shield someone else. He dies protecting the ones he had grown to care for and love. He dies when he drops his guard accidentally and gets attacked in dark alleyways by people desperate to live. But he keeps coming back.
And every time he comes back, the first thing he does when he has a moment alone is to look into the mirror, to see if his reflection is still there.
Each time he does that, he hopes, and fears, and wonders when, it will be the first time he can’t see himself.
End
...........................
*kicks self*
I feel brilliant, oh so brilliant. ><
Anyway, hope you guys like it. *goes off to poke at fish and veggies*
Mirror
Cloud remembers the first time he woke up after he died. He had sat up in his bed, gasping as though he had almost drowned. He could remember, and almost feel the deceptively strong tendrils of the Lifestream wrapped around his ankles, pulling him downwards before some other force had hauled him violently away, slamming him back into his body with a sickening thud.
He remembers people screaming, fainting, cursing. There was a stampede around his bed. The dead do not come back to life. Especially those with almost every bone in their body broken after being thrown from and trampled by a horse in a hunting accident. He sat on his bed, disoriented, staring at his hands, feeling his heart thumping in his chest.
He should have died. Why was he here? Why was he still alive?
They told him later that his mother had killed herself barely hours before, crazed by her grief. Poisoned herself and died with her arms wrapped tight around his corpse. Her precious baby. He remembers wondering why, if he had to come back to life, couldn’t he have done it earlier.
He remembers getting dressed for his mother’s funeral. He remembers catching sight of his reflection in the mirror. He remembers the stories his mother used to tell him as a child during the cold winters when they huddled together by the fire with mugs of hot cocoa, sharing a thick blanket and pretending they were explorers lost in the snow.
‘…And suddenly, the traveler’s gaze shifted to the mirror directly behind the maiden’s shoulder. The only reflection there was his own face. He turned pale and started to back away. The maiden noticed that he was no longer looking at her, and turned to see what was distracting him. She screamed when she saw the mirror, because she wasn’t there. She was a ghost, and ghosts had no tangible form to appear in mirrors...’
He reached out with a trembling hand and touched the surface of the mirror. As his right hand ran over the face of the reflection, his left hand mirrored its actions, tugging and pulling at his hair, his ears, his lips, his chin.
Tangible.
Solid.
He slammed a fist into the mirror as the tears finally started to flow, tears of grief for his mother and for himself.
He shouldn’t be here.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Time passes endlessly. Days become years become decades become centuries. He dies and wakes up, again and again in a sort of vicious cycle.
Sometimes he wonders whether he would still look like this if he had died when he was older, say when he was fifty. It seemed as though time had stopped for him after the first time he had died when he was barely out of his teens. Since then, his body, as though in defiance to his immortality, had refused to age, retaining the exact appearance he had that fateful day, one spring lifetimes ago, when he had kissed his mother goodbye for the last time and joined the hunt for fun.
He lives and dies and lives again. He gets assassinated. He gets caught in crossfires, using his body to shield someone else. He dies protecting the ones he had grown to care for and love. He dies when he drops his guard accidentally and gets attacked in dark alleyways by people desperate to live. But he keeps coming back.
And every time he comes back, the first thing he does when he has a moment alone is to look into the mirror, to see if his reflection is still there.
Each time he does that, he hopes, and fears, and wonders when, it will be the first time he can’t see himself.
End