Naruto Fan Fiction ❯ Enlightenment ❯ Room of Mirrors ( Chapter 4 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Author’s Notes: Chapter may also contain descriptive horror elements. Complaints accepted for the sole reason that I’m not studying medicine and the rating: I don’t know how to rate it now, please tell me if it’s wrong. I’m uncertain about my ability in writing these days, so I can’t promise you that I will meet even my own standards. Nearly three-fourths are forced. That’s why you could entertain the fact that it’s studded with purple prose. Sorry. This chapter may seem non-sensical, but it's because it's been rushed. Reviews are very much appreciated! Constructive criticism, of course, is much pleasing.
And, I am very sorry for the extremely long update. I entered about four competitions in school this first quarter, and I’m not exactly expecting to win, but I did it anyway. I had two long projects and one of them was passed late because I'm dumb. Sorry. I’m very, very sorry. Besides, laziness got the better of me.
Oh, yeah, since I forgot to acknowledge the original reference of one of my previous quotes, I'll do it now. I do not own the quote from Genjo Sanzo in Gensomaden Saiyuki. Did I spell that right?

A.L1, sorry for not answering that one about Gaara’s own opinion about the fork roads. His is just that the roads are a black and white idea, in my opinion; the white is something that he doesn’t care about and the black is the more preferable shade in his situation. So yeah, you’re right about ‘forcing himself to make two paths only’. We could say that a lot of matters contributed to the eventual paths given.
Sariachan-Marina
Whoa, that was really a heavy review for me. I don’t know much but I’ll try my best to answer. I’ll email you my answer the time that I can.
Oh, yeah, he didn’t use the scarf because he can’t think right, quote: ‘His confusion seemed to force all logic to vanish…’ :) Thanks for all the reviews and that one lengthy review. XD

Sorry for the inconvenience and this very long explanation, readers.

I’m a Roman Catholic, Silver Shadow Tamer, and thank you for asking. Sorry if I seem a bit of a fanatic. Don’t worry, I’ve changed slightly after the previous years. I feel like a heretic after some time, though. :P

Warning: Gaara-centric. Contains fantasy; the fanfic should not be taken literally.

Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, don’t own Naruto’s canon character, Gaara.

Summary: “Like a sapling he grew in front of us, like a root in arid land. Without beauty, without majesty we saw him, no looks to attract our eyes: a thing despised, rejected by man, a man of sorrows, familiar with suffering. We thought of him as someone punished, struck by God and brought low…”
~Text: Ruth 1:16; Jeremiah 53: 1-5 © 1966 The Jerusalem Bible

“The web of our life is of mingled yarn, good and ill together,” quote by William Shakespeare.
Is life always filled with misfortune? And if it is so, must we hate our neighbors and ourselves? Gaara seems to believe so.



Chapter 4: Room of Mirrors

Scarlet. When his eyes were attempting to open, his eyes met a dark red color. Opening them wider, the warm liquid stuck to his upper and lower eyelashes, stretching and making thin lines of red. The crimson threads broke and were gone in an instant.

The room looked like a hospital emergency room, only darker. To his eyes, it vaguely resembled a morgue. Lights came from a single bulb that swayed constantly, that frequently brushed a few strokes of its beams on him. A mirror stood by his side; light bounced on its clear plane when the bulb swung too close, which sent blinding glares of light on his face.

Gaara held the bulb and steadied it, he was getting irritated by its back and forth motion repeating ceaselessly. He didn’t mind the heat radiating from it, almost as if he was numb. Impassiveness was painted all over his face, and could be seen clearly even with only small rays of light passing through the gaps of his fingers. He let go of the bulb unhurriedly, letting his hand glide.

He returned his attention to the looking glass. Blood dripped down his bangs and eyes, it made him appear like he was crying it. With his left hand, he placed a forefinger on his blood stained cheek and he knew immediately that it dried and stuck to his face. His fingernail scratched slowly, it began to fold away and crack up, falling as maroon flakes. His expression began to change; his left eye remained normal but his right eye widened with madness, a wide psychotic smile formed on his mouth.

Something nudged his elbow, he turned his attention to see who or what it was.

A person was kneeling awkwardly; his shoulders, head and arms were on top of a white table in front of them, his legs were sprawled uncomfortably on the marble floor. The man had short -brown hair? Maybe brown; he couldn’t determine precisely in the dim light. The person wore dark clothes, ones that look as if it blended with the shadows.

Grabbing the man by the hair, Gaara pulled the head off the table and faced it.

Surprise made him drop the man’s head. The person’s chin hit the table with a small thud before his body slithered down, settling finally on Gaara’s left leg.

The face was a gaping hole; no eyes, nose or mouth, no internal organs left inside it either. An animal must have eaten its way through, but what kind of animal would eat like that or better yet, what kind of creature would have eaten only the person’s face this cleanly? Blood was drained away that the head oddly reminded him of an empty bowl. It was neatly sliced, unmarked by teeth of any animal vicious enough that could do this, and that of which he could think of. Half of a cranium and the scalp were the only ones left. How strange.

The dead body’s left hand remained on the white table, clinging on limply. Observing the table, he realized that it might have been used for surgery, an operating table. A smirk played on his lips.

Silence filled the air.

In a swift motion, his fist flew to the mirror and the sound of a crash slashed the silence. Pieces of the mirror fell on the floor, a large one missed Gaara’s right foot by less than an inch. Small pieces protruded from his hand but he didn’t care, and he picked up the large glass piece that pierced the marble ground.

Pulling the corpse’s hand roughly, he placed it closer to him, then positioned the blade over to its arm, an inch and a half below the wrist, and started cutting. The red liquid spurted as he went about slitting the cadaver’s skin. Soon, the red liquid chose to flow slowly and it continued to pour as he moved on. The stream of blood seemed endless and he enjoyed watching it, carrying on aggressively.

It was easy at the beginning but the bone was hard to cut by mere glass. Pressing harder, he sliced through to the middle but was having a hard time keeping a hold of the mirror piece. It seemed to have gotten stuck a little. He tugged and the hand came with the glass. Yanking harder, he managed to pull it off.

Blood pooled on the operating table, dripping down the floor once in a while.

He turned the arm over, clutching the blade on his right hand securely; he started to cut faster and more forceful. Suddenly, the hand’s knuckles twitched, he looked back at the dead body. Impossible… it can’t be alive. After all the person had no brain to begin with, the body won’t be able to function.

He went back to the hand sitting patiently on the white hospital bed, waiting for him to get moving.

Eyes narrowed, he started quickening his pace, digging deeper into the hand. The wine-colored liquid started welling up, making a red puddle around the hand, staining Gaara’s own. Red fluid surrounded his pale face, blotching all over as the hand broke off, surging out of it for the second time.

He left the hand there for a short while, kicking the carcass that leaned on his left leg. He wouldn’t need that thing anymore. And he faced the table with an indifferent look in his eyes.

Another grin spread across his mouth as he raised the mirror to meet his eye level, blood was trickling down from it. He twirled it around in sporadic intervals, trailing his view upon the tainted surface. The mirror could still cast a reflection except that it had a light crimson color throughout the plane. In his vision, everything appeared to have changed to match the color of blood.

Returning his attention to the hand, he located the mirror’s blade at the corner end of the forefinger. He pressed down lightly, directing the mirror downwards, just above the wrist. Ruby colored fluid spurted out and ran relentlessly on the table, blemishing it.

The light flickered a little, dimming for a second and then brightening up again. He didn’t even bother to look, but he knew that blood has tainted it too, since the light gave off spots of a reddish pink color.

Pointing the mirror’s sharp edge over to the upper right side, he started to cut softly towards the upper left. He repeated the movement on the bottom until he finally got the look that he wanted. It seemed like a small tender door to the hand, with which somebody could look at the insides by just pushing it open.

Blood formed a large puddle on his work area, the hand was practically swimming in it. He tipped the hand to the side, trying to dry it of the dark red fluid that would just be a nuisance to him.

Opening the small, door-like hole, he gazed at the strange layers of fibers that surrounded it. The fibers formed a triangular shape with three open holes; another batch of the thick substance lined the upper region, joining and closing the three gaps. It was hard to look at it without doubting whether this was the real interior or this was just a blood clot; the red liquid was indeed an annoyance.

Observing carefully, he could see small wires that stretched to the fingers, they were below the wide cluster of fibers. With the cutting edge of the mirror, he took off the fibers to get a closer look. He could see a large chunk of a meat-like material encircling the hand. It was hard to describe especially with all the blood sticking to it. Although there was liquid bothering the sight, he could see vaguely that the some of the wires he had seen earlier were fixed to it. The rest of these kinds of small chains were below it.

The chunk felt firm yet still fleshy, he pierced through it with the blade’s point and observed that it had no effect. Nothing happened for quite a time so he continued to prod deeper. The blade, coming in contact with one of the small, delicate wires, cut it off and the familiar liquid spurted out, and then lazily flowed down to the operating table.

Something at the corner of his eye cut off his concentration.

Gaara noticed something from below him, the dark liquid seemed to have spread widely and has more amount than that of the puddle on the table. Strange. The man’s arm must have bled a lot… the only explanation left for that incident, but he remembered shoving the body out of his way–

He looked down and searched for a trail of blood leading to the body.

There was a pause. His eyes widened as he realized something: there was no body, and the puddle of blood was on his direction only.

A concept popped in his head and he raised his left arm to his face.

The moment was hushed.

There, in front of him, was a large gaping wound, the scarlet liquid oozing out slowly. No hand sat on his limb. In a few seconds, his arm was drenched in his own blood and it continued to stream down, bathing him in the color he liked. Still liked? Maybe…

At the start it hadn’t felt like anything at all, just liquid pouring down his arm. Then it pained him, some kind of injury he never experienced often. It felt like a group of separate, thick needles piercing through, forcing their way inside. The ache throbbed, surrounding the whole arm. It felt as if it was scraping away the skin around his upper limb, boring a deeper wound. The sting was running up and down his arm, almost numbing it.

Gaara just looked at the liquid, he didn’t try to bandage the end of his wrist or stanch the blood or do anything. He just stood there, looking at the wide-open injury at his forearm. The blank expression on his face made it appear as if he didn’t care at all.

Did he really?

Glancing back at his left hand, he stared at the open gash that he himself produced. His head cocked to the side, the arrogant appearance on his face never leaving. Then a half-sob, half-laughter escaped his lips.

The right hand dropped slowly to the table and sat the blade firmly on the plane. Then he raised his hand, trembling from uncertainty, and shakily held the bulb. With a clenching fist, turned it into bits of broken glass. The flickering light within his hands persevered, but nevertheless it started to die out. The heat scarred his hand, but he didn’t care. Soon enough, the lights vanished; the solitary figure that stood in the area was soaked with darkness- continuing again with his strange laughter that echoed among the four walls of that enclosed room…


* * * * * * * * * * * * *

His eyes shot open; cold beads of sweat made their way down his chin, stopping abruptly and then moving on to mix with the rainwater that pooled beneath him.

Movement felt restricted and breathing came in rasps, every muscle in his body ached in his attempts to shift. Tired blue-green eyes were ajar, trying badly to remain open. Red strands were blocking his line of sight but his eyes looked on, unfazed.

The torch’s light was starting to flicker; cold winds passed their way inside through the tiny gap below the wooden doors, quenching the fire’s warmth. But the fires fought and the light continued to flare, weak but still struggling.

Gaara looked down on his left hand, inspecting for any wounds, lines, scars or any of that sort. He bent it forwards and backwards, turning it around for him to spot any kind of damage, probably a broken bone… or maybe if it was going to unstitch off of his wrist. Nothing wrong.

A first. Dreams were entirely new to him, since he didn’t sleep a lot… maybe once or twice, but not enough for his brain to project any kind of dream. Probably a once in a lifetime situation for someone the likes of him. And the first time he ever had a dream turned out to be a nightmare. He concluded it as real as he felt the pain, he smelled the blood and a trickle of fear danced its way on his spine to the back of his neck -although he wouldn’t admit it to anyone or even to himself. So real did the images seem, he was compelled to believe.

What was that dream about? Did it really happen or was it just sending a message to him? Was that the reason why he was here?

A sound echoed through the barren walls telling him that he was not alone.

Instinct told him to move, but he remained immobile. Whoever it was he didn’t care, he’s going to fight even if he was not in the condition to.

Footfalls started to sound closer, and he could distinctly point out that he wore nothing for protection on the feet- just his or her feet. The footsteps were light but one would know that the person was coming closer. Gaara was starting to nod off to sleep but he fought it off. Clenching his fists, he readied himself for whatever was going to come to him; he was not about to lose to an enemy. Sharpened eyes looked at the cement, almost drilling a hole in their glare.

He didn’t leave his sitting position, until the shadow of the person covered his form. It wore a familiar white robe, one that strangely illuminated in the dark atmosphere. The person knelt down facing him, and he didn’t need to think twice to realize who it was. Muscles of his arm ached when he lifted it and grasped the woman’s neck, but he wasn’t concerned about that, he just wanted to kill her. Now.

As he raised his head, the figure in front of him confirmed his suspicions.

The veiled woman sighed and looked at him sadly, she didn’t seem the least bit bothered by his threats. What perplexed him and irritated more was that she wasn’t frowning because she hated him, he could see it in her face, she only did so because she was being threatened for the third time. Then his head started to feel the prickly needles that was becoming all far too recognizable to him.

The scene became hazy and his vision began to shake, the hold he kept on the woman’s neck was slackening. The whole place dimmed and it appeared as if he was looking through a gap on a door. Not long then, everything turned black and he was asleep again. The woman took off the shawl she used to cover her shoulders and arms, and placed it around Gaara, thinking, he would need it for a while.

The lady stood gracefully, her hands clasped together in front of her. Eventually she walked away, her form disappeared into the waiting darkness.

The dark figure leaning on the wall shivered for a moment, then it shifted and faced the wooden doors. Shadows covered most of its features and only the color of oxygenated blood on its head was where the light bounced on. Water trickled down the wall in large amounts that it soaked the huddled form. Though the drops kept on descending, the body went on sleeping, savoring every moment in its dream world's comforting silence.

Rumbling softly now the lightning and the thunder were already disappearing into the distance, and the downpour was receding to a drizzle. The rainstorm slowly faded and the light, though shaded with the gray of the clouds, passed through the cracks plastered all over the decaying building.

The flares of the torch kept on going, and rose even higher as the winds squeezed through the holes. Yellow, orange, red and a small outline of blue danced around the scorched, darkened wood. Charcoal black. Like the figure on the corner blanketed in shadows.

The figure on the right shifted for the second time, and appeared to be in a state of relaxation even through all the events that transpired.

As it moved, scraping sounds came from its footwear. Wetness has loosened the bandages around its ankles, that its paper quality has torn it down piece by piece. The figure’s nearly porcelain skin was revealed. The leg withdrew as the rays touched it. It felt a near scorching sensation.

Radiance spread out like drapes over the building’s interior. The light danced around, like an exhilarated girl in a white dress going around in swirls- it stirred up the building’s visitor as it passed it by. More brilliance.

The dance was fading away. The body in the corner budged. As the shadow moved to face the opposite wall exhaustedly, these words were uttered in complete defiance, “I don’t need anything.” Context and intonation were drained of emotion.

Aquamarine eyes opened. The black frames turned into slits, and the owner turned to glare at the torch that blazed higher.

Forcefully pulling the shawl off of his shoulders he hurled it away. It bounced off the wall and, much like paper, settled down lightly on the ground.

Stubborn was perfect, but one would probably choose hard-rock determination as a loose term. He didn’t think so because he couldn’t care less about what this was. Impractical but, in a sense -or in his logical sense-, fair. For every little torture; mental, emotional and physical, this someone had to pay for all this.

The cause creates an effect. It never occurred to him though, or maybe he was thinking about this at the back of his mind, that he might be have been searching for the wrong cause all along.

He wasn’t so sure how long he’d been asleep. Probably for more than just a few minutes. He could see it from the intensity of the sunlight. It seemed though that he couldn’t care less whether he had been there for hours. The hunt was going to continue anyway.

The corridors were covered in filth. Even he doubted walking through them. He wasn’t so sure why he was going even farther into that path, but he went on anyway.

Stepping lightly onto the cobbles, he continued through the corridor uncertainly. Apparently attracted by an invisible force, questioning for reason was put aside. This was not good. The gut feeling was also placed aside, that made it even more frustrating. The way it felt so wrong and yet it embraced.

Maybe he was just feeling unwell, which was putting it mildly, after being well spent in the situations he was practically dowsed in.

It dripped.

The water that cleansed the walls slid down thickly, as if it had something else other than the pure liquid. Gaara looked around. The building was desolate. Sort of. He felt the presence; the kind of heavy burden that surrounded his whole body. It was invisible but was as existent as the air on his skin.

There were eyes.

Aggravation was the only emotion he felt for this place, nothing more. Its loneliness. The appearance of the cracked walls dotted with holes where light passed through. The light was gray, the only dull hue that seemed to exist here, and it laid on his skin like clothing. Clothing covered him though, and this didn’t. It was too much exposure.

He was open for everyone to see.

There was the strange negative attraction the place radiated with and it succeeded in catching him with its bait.

Commodity.

The building was prison. The cage in which he was placed for all of his existence. The cage was his existence. It would probably be a privilege to even be called an animal, at least the lack of conscience could be an excuse. He was, after all, nothing but a priced commodity. Ready to be used, bought, played around by reality.

He tried to shake the notions away. They weren’t very much of use right now.

The path appeared to stretch far longer than it was supposedly.

In the corner at an area of the corridor, a door lay open. It was illuminated, a sort of neon glow similar to those in city lights. Was this a way outside? To where he belonged, perhaps?

He strolled towards the psychedelia. Light flashed across panels of shiny surfaces, passing through walls upon walls that divided the room into sections. The brightness was chopped into fragments of colors. The hues were separated and yet they seemed to blend. The outcome of the room’s appearance invited nausea and disorientation.

His first instinct was to shield his eyes from the constant assault on his retina, but a strange emotion was invoked that he felt obliged to stare.

One more step, he heard the room hum. The glasses vibrated, he almost assumed, due to anticipation.

Taking a few more steps, he cautiously surveyed the room. At an amazing speed, light was swept from the glass walls. Something breezed past his ears. He felt its intensity through the pressure, it felt like it sliced a chunk from his skin. The sound¾ a clang, reminiscent of a spoon tapped on a glass cup, resonated.

Suspicious, he scanned the perimeter for further movement. Nothing. Just the familiar sounds made by the glasses pattering against each other, the clinks of shards. Periwinkle drops of broken mirrors descended to the floor, joining the ones below. There seemed to be no one who entered for a long time.

This made him think that maybe after spending too much time inside the building escalated his paranoia. Tightly gripping for the wall, he managed to shove the idea in the back of his mind.

Raising his head, he stared at the more intricately constructed piece of architecture he’d ever seen. Glasses were, as it seemed from his angle, strewn and laced against each other. Each one faced the other, side by side, and they all faced the middle¾ what they reflected, though, was the ceiling. It was painted with the sky.

The place looked like it was built a dreamer, with wishes the number of stars. He dreamt it into reality, his reality, by making a glass ceiling for his room of aspirations. A hopeless, unrealistic wretch who built a room full of mirrors to be able to escape in a world of narcissism and self-centeredness. To be able to free himself from the reality that broke him.

The creation failed drastically and only brought him in the middle of the coldness of the mirror’s planes. Look at the dreamer now: he has drowned in a self-destructive search for twisted recognition. All he has left now was the rotting memory of the dreams.

He probably deserved it anyway else. Gaara could see his story written on the walls. Marks of age and the batters of experience lined the concrete, spilling the unfortunate man’s past, his present and his possible future.

Once the spiral staircase to the moon. The clear chandelier that was supposed to light his path to the sky. Judging by its construction, a problem had presented itself. It could not be completed. Either the dreamer gave up halfway, or that was the highest he could reach.

“For when you have reached the top, the only way left is down,” he mumbled absent-mindedly in his usual monotone. Someone had told him of this, who that person was he was still on the verge of finding out. A drop of memory in the sea of forgotten.

A ripple.

He stopped for a moment and raised his head. This was even stranger. Was he forgetting things or remembering? Where did he begin? His mind raced, panicking for answers that lodged themselves way too far back in his mind.

It felt so wrong. How incomprehensible. So much like… brainwash. Maybe this was genjutsu. Then he had to fight back. Stop the chakra flow, right? Right?

He paused. To begin with the chakra he had now, in itself, was weak and… disjointed. This was impossible unless there was interference of a sort. Maybe. Or¾ well, it just didn’t make sense. Was this because Shukaku wasn’t there to supply him properly? Has he become dependent? One thing was that if there was no proper chakra flow, genjutsu wouldn’t work. If the dream was lucid, and he knew of it, he could remember that he would be able to wake up from it. Then why?

Now he wasn’t so certain that this was a dream.

The light from some of the mirrors distorted. It shifted in such a manner that indicated blockage. A shadow.

He hadn’t even moved.

Cautiously, he turned to face the mirrors that seemed to have changed.

They have changed. They contained a little prisoner.

He shook his head. It was just himself. What was he thinking?

He pondered silently for a few more minutes. They weighed down heavily on him, like a strange blanket of fear. If this wasn’t a dream, was this his resting place? By death from Shukaku’s take over? His figure steeled. No way. He could not have slept. There was no way he would let his body be stolen from him, the only thing he properly owned.

Then where?

Another ripple.

No.

He would not succumb to this instability. He needed clarity of thoughts if he was to assess the situation presented to him.

Walking leisurely across the path of the coiling mirrors, he traced his way towards the very heart of the structure. Gaara absent-mindedly marvelled at its near-impossible construction. His head raised, following the ascending steps and he saw the star laced sky. It was inviting; luring in a superficial manner.

He stopped short.

Admiration should not be wasted upon shallow, external beauty that could easily allure. That was too unchallenging.

Hypocrite. The wind whispered.

A strong tug from a thread in his chest caught his attention. The ache came back - what did he do now?

Trying to forget this apparently insignificant detail, he glanced at the mirror in front of him.

To say the least, Gaara was unnerved by the vision he saw. Nothing had been quite like this in the span of his tedious journey. They provoked unwarranted images, decayed emotions of the past. This one was more extreme. He hadn’t expected it.

It felt so wrong.

It ate at you. It fed itself from the inside out. It had the memories. All of them, the happy, the sad, the embarrassing-- there's nothing to leave out. The memories were its eyes. And the mouths that grin or laugh to mock and taunt. It is the very end of the overflowing rage. When there's nothing more to throw, to shout or to accuse. When there were no more tears to cry. And from there, there's probably nothing else more left.

It could probably be best described as something like one of his techniques -he couldn't remember what it was called- performed around the chest. And sharp needles trying to break out of your eyes. And a feeling in your stomach as if it plummeted to a bottomless pit. And your whole body feeling light as if a slight wind would blow it down... when you did fall down, you would shatter in a million pieces.

Somehow, in the end, you find out that the sharp needles were your eyes, trying to gouge themselves out of their sockets. And the bottomless pit was the stomach. And your body was light; pathetic and worthless and easily destroyed.

It was dull. A numbness that hung on every feature of your face. It dragged all your muscles down. It was comatose. It was every sickness in the book. It existed. But like a psychological disorder, you never knew what it was actually like until you had it.

It would smile bitterly, knowingly because you acknowledge it with open arms. Nobody could actually avoid this, in the long run. Those who say they could are in total denial. But it's their disadvantage anyway because it's eating faster than before.

It always won. That's why they all ended up saggy, and worthless, and pathetic. They never could escape it. There were no favoritisms, it was always going to be there. No matter how much you vaccinate yourself from it. No matter how much you had or did not have. No matter where you went. Like a poor street dog lapping at your feet. And the shadow that is stuck against you when the sun shines and that which gets even bigger in the dark.

They said it was all in the mind. If they were right, then why does the mirror reflect it that you seem to actually be it?

Why did you feel it that much? Why then was it a cancer?

It continued to spread even then as he watched from the inverted copy. There it was, the sting of a first wound; the fear from the first knowledge that there were monsters; the first drawing that was either ignored or insulted; even the skip of a heartbeat.

It made you feel ugly. After then, you would look at yourself and you were.
...What did they call it again? This thing?

Even the walls echoed the silence of his thoughts.

Why were people stupid enough as to name it anyway? When it couldn't even be described in the clicks of one's tongue. Even the descriptions of such words would not ever suffice.

Or maybe something did.

That one word. Maybe. That thing scrawled on his forehead like a signature forged on stone. A mark that said everything this... cancer was. The seed where it was born. How can people believe he did not know the meaning of the word plastered on his head? Knowing it was the actual depth of the cancer he possessed.

He sneered.

He really needed a break from all of this. Releasing an exasperated sigh, he fell back slightly. He supported himself by the lower palm of his hands, even if energy didn't seem to flow, he tried.

Lazily, he forced himself not to break down. He wanted to watch. That was the only thing he could do in the place. There were so much vacant space other than the materials that it looked like a minimalist approach in design. He didn't really care. Just then, he felt like absorbing all the information his head could intake. Everything.

When this failed, he tried to remember. All the things that flashed through his mind was a sequence of events that didn't make sense.

He decided to just sit there.

All the attention he could give was then placed on the mirror before him. Unconsciously, his finger drew symbols on the mirror's surface, trying to form images. Trying to make sense. Movement came from the reflection. The ugly images' distortion increased, and the figure in front of him didn't resemble any human features. Ripples danced across the mirror face and bounced against every blockage. They seemed like visible echoes.

What was going on?

Uncertainty told him not to move from his sitting position and to stay within the imaginary boundaries set by the mirrors. Gaara traced the mirror’s surface all over again. The watery view of the glass affected his reflection; every time a finger made contact with its skin on the plane, a ripple swam outwards.

Surreal.

With a tired expression, he continued to outline details of his mistakes; the reflection of his actions on his soul. If he even had a one.

Screams gripped the edges and borders of the mirror; eyes were painted throughout the background; the blood and tears and chopped up skin lined the ice-like plane. There he was on the foreground, an indeterminate chunk of flesh with wounds scattered on what seemed to be his chest, his head, and his hands.

His hand slapped against the mirror. It shook in a disturbing manner. Was it ready to fall into pieces? Has it become this brittle? Also, that thing actually was his hand, he mused bitterly.

A sharp intake of breath echoed in the room, and the mirrors trembled in harmony.