Reflections: Eyes Down

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic


A slightly disturbed young man who preferably goes without being named, appears to be in a severely fragile, degraded, and unpredictable state of mental health. Do you look for meaning in the
babbling of a madman, Or in contrast take nothing they say seriously as once stated to be insane, that's all you'll amount to in the eyes of all looking in. Furthermore, Is our odd teen of
questionable morals a lunitic on the verge of snapping or perhaps there is meaning behind his behavior. Meaning something to him. Perhaps he is just the product of a hard life and alot of anger.
Reguardless of the reason for his actions, he is set to detonate. When the smoke finally clears. What did it mean?



This is the first of two installments for the full story of Reflection. Third revisal of part 1. (Present day setting)

Submitted: June 09, 2018

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Submitted: June 09, 2018

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I have come to loathe my reflection. I'm now convinced the mockingly truthful vanity opposite of I enjoys the blatant discomfort I endure upon viewing the Image that I currently possess, and plague the world to view.   What I have was not unwarranted to obtain. The trophy is grand if you enjoy drowning. Respect is earned by those who's heads have fallen from their shoulders without objection in hopes to maintain safty and secrecy for their flag. It goes without saying, I am not so quick to volunteer. The rewards are unyielding. No warrents for pride follow.   I steal a final gaze into the mirror. I see a young man with goulish pale skin. Deep creases underline a pair of dark brown eyes pointing in opposite directions. Bearing thick, mussy brown hair, and large ears that stick out at the tips. This is certainty not an attractive or welcoming image. Yet, I cannot take my eyes off of it. The unnatural image has me repulsed. It's just not fitting.   I exit the hotel bath and begin stowing a few essential things into my throw bag. A roll of small bills, a halogen flashlight, a switchblade, and a few granola bars. Before long, with all of my confidence, indeed in resemblance to many nights prior, I venture once more. As I am wandering the now nearly vacant metro station, I come upon a ragged pan handler plucking at the strings of an old Galveston acoustic, playing a rather impressive yet soothing melody. I reach into my pocket and give him a couple of dollars. He excepts the tip with a seemingly polite yet rotten smile, but his eyes seem greedy. Grey irises enviously trailing the wod of cash I had taken the two singles from.Brushing off the overall oddness of the old man's demeanour. I return my means back into its pocket, and stride toward the restrooms adjacent to the platform. Just within my peripheral range, I catch sight of the beggers attempt to clumsily sling his guitar strap over his shoulder leaving the old acoustic hanging down the length of his back. After a futile bid to reinstate his composure, he begins to sloppily stagger in my direction.  I let the insecurable door swing closed as I grasp tightly onto my blade, due to my rising suspicion of the inebriated drifter's intent to loot me. In alternative contrast of granting success to this seemingly effortless and oportune task, I press a small button on the hilt of my knife.  A sleek, silver encladed blade formally lying dormant, abruptly emerges from its perfectly nestled position. No longer obscured within its concealing chink. Prepared for anything, I gain a wield worthy grasp upon one of the many potential vitality halting products of my consistant lack of rational thought process. Upon his entering the men's restroom, the worn cotton glove bound hands of the grimey, stench fumeing bum quickly rise. Enclosing the circumference of my neck with great strength, whilst forcing his thumbs into the soft pit just above my collarbones. The old man's suprisingly effective grip quickly depraves my now burning lungs of oxygen. Initial shock and fear flee my mind and body as I begin to collect my thoughts and avoid panic. Now, the filthy bottomfeeder intently glares into my eyes, filled with a level of excitement that can only be matched by a Santa believing child on Christmas morning, Giddy for the oportunity to see the life drain from them, until nothing is remnant aside from a shell where life once resided.  A mockingly shallow reflection of the life he takes, soul to sunder, body to dry and wither. An endless supply from the construct of time, lay ahead to aid in the endless rot. Untill nothing lye remnant aside the mound of dust from which I emerged and glass brown eye which rests atop.   This I refuse, whilst his mind may reel my many cruel deaths, and deprived perversion to follow the swell of dead joints and lack of struggle from lustful fresh victim, with bloody wounds slick and body warm still. I plunge the knife's blade into the chest of the thief. His eyes burst wide as the blade slides between his ribs and into his heart, as the pain quickly ebbs in. Time for he whos fight has died to wave white flags. He jerks in convulsion, breaths sound the rattle of death. He then hits the floor, head first with full weight. Skull split by white tile in final defeat. He shows no sign that he could've survived. He, like a true looter, had fallen on luck. For the death he had earned by his own decisions should've come more slowly. Perhaps elsewhere, he is due just that. I then approach the sink and begin calmly rinsing off the blade of my blood slathered knife. I reach into my throw bag and remove a personal kit I keep on my person durring every excursion in which i partake. From this kit I retrieve a razor blade, a seam ripper, a needle, and a spool of silk thread. Razor blade in hand I kneel next to the recently deceased pan handler. placing the edge of the razor just behind his left ear, and with adding just enough pressure, The thin blade will slice cleanly with virtually no resistance, whilst severing all connective tissue, muscular fiber, tendons, even cartilage along its path.  I used the blade to make an incision from behind his left ear, to the bottom of his chin, along his hairline, and back behind the starting ear. Next I grab ahold of his jaw and ever so carefully begin to peel off his face. The action emits saturated slurps and ripping sounds in the process. I then lay it face down atop the restroom sink. I then retrieve my seam ripper...and I proceed to break loose stitches that hold up the idenity I currently present. Beginning to break its bond at thee base of their weaving path just behind the current left ear. . . .

Oh, how I love my reflection now. Merely catching glimpse of it summons a smile that I cannot manage to tuck away.


© Copyright 2018 Weesus-Matimas. All rights reserved.

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