I yelled in frustration and punched the mirror, but howled in pain, instantly regretting it as my knuckles came in contact with the now jagged and shattered glass.
I'd been stuck in the same gray room with nothing but a mirror - well, there used
to be a mirror - and a mattress for Three and a half months now. I was bound to start talking to myself - or my reflection - at some point.
I only realized I was really crazy when it began to talk back.
Say I'm crazy, but I was certain my reflection hated me. It almost tormented, and certainly terrified me. I shivered at the thought.
I looked down at my bloodied hand, there were a few small shards of the mirror embeded in my skin. I pulled a few out, too tired to be pained by the stinging sensation travelling down my arm. The voices echoed through my head, not making much sense. Just random words and clips of thoughts. I clamped my hands over my ears in a feeble and pointless attempt to block them out, even though I knew it wouldn't help.
I hung my head, turning so that I could lean against the wall and slowly slid to the floor. As I did, I heard a door creak open before slamming shut again.
"Aww, did someone hurt themselves?" Matt mocked, cocking his head to one side.
I grumbled, not looking up. I'd wanted company, and this is what I got. Just my luck. That's what I get for wishful thinking.
"So, how've you been, eh? I know your Scarlett's been doing good."
My head snapped up at that comment. "What?" I jumped up and stormed over to him. "If you've even-"
"Don't worry about it." He scoffed, smirking at my reaction. "I haven't touched her. She hardly knows my name."
"Yeah. I bumped into her a few times, we chatted a little, you know. And the only way you can ensure me not bringing her back here next time, you'd better not pull another stunt like that." He eyed the shattered mess covering a small portion of the floor, right below where the mirror had been.
"If you lay a finger on her, so help me, I'll-"
"You'll what? You hardly have any energy to stand, never mind try to hurt me. If I wanna take her, I will. If I wanna kill
her, I will.
And I snapped.
My hands found my way to his throat, and I pushed him back against the wall.
He gasped, obviously not expecting my sudden surge of strength. But he'd crossed the line.
Adrenaline rushed through me as I hit and punched and kicked, leaving red marks and - eventually - bloody cuts and gashes all over his skin. He begged me to stop, but I wouldn't; couldn't. I literally could not stop, as if I wasn't in control of my body any longer.
I forced myself to stop as Matt sobbed, lying in a bloody mess on the floor. I took a step back, too shocked at myself to do anything. He scrambled to his feat, barely able to walk to the door. Before he left, he turned back to me.
"You're sick. Sick and twisted."
"Thanks." I mumbled. "Learned it from the best." I spat, glaring at him. His eyes narrowed and he backed out of the room. The door shut with a loud clank
as it locked. I looked down at my hands, which were now covered in Matt's and my own blood. He's right, you know. You're sick.
You know what "Normal" is? A setting on a washing machine. No one wants to be that.