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flowers up my throat
Dec. 11th, 2017 05:19 pmNatsume has never liked mirrors. Mirrors only show the truth, and it showed him a reality that he wasn't ready to face. Reflections were always flipped on its surface, too — truth, but not quite true. Like a white lie, made from nine parts honesty and one part ambiguous.
I am a mirror myself, he thinks. A two-sided mirror, two sides of the coin. Two mirrors facing each other never brought anything but bad luck, or so it has been said, but Natsume had never been the person who followed rules as if they were his lifeline. Breaking a few here and there was his signature; the mosaic he leaves behind part of his magnum opus.
His hair, asymmetrically cut behind him, has gotten longer than he'd thought. His eyes, he notices not for the first time, are a piercing yellow; amber, like liquid gold. He imagines cats' eyes glowing unblinkingly in the darkness, under lamplight.
He touches his throat gingerly. Feels for any remnant of the burning residue he'd felt, but not even a drop remained. And yet, he knows it's not just something that disappeared easily; it's something that came back, and back, and back, no matter how many times you chased it off, tried to exorcise it, tried to break it down and swallow it whole.
Natsume stares at his reflection, and wonders when the last time he'd looked at himself like this.
(He'd been vulnerable, tears streaming down his face, blood and glass scarring his knuckles.)
He sees the cracks form along the mirror's smooth surface, figments of his mind crawling over like gossamer-light spiderwebs.
Natsume shakes his head, and they are swept away. Instead, he imagines flower petals dropping out of his mouth, the disgustingly sweet rose petals that Tenshouin loved falling out one by one, into the sink. Hanahaki disease, though arguably fictitious, only happens when you know you don't have a chance of winning, after all.
The petals keep on falling.
Because it's easier to pretend it's like that, nothing but an illness, a curse.
He turns off the light, and leaves the petals dripping onto the floor behind.
I am a mirror myself, he thinks. A two-sided mirror, two sides of the coin. Two mirrors facing each other never brought anything but bad luck, or so it has been said, but Natsume had never been the person who followed rules as if they were his lifeline. Breaking a few here and there was his signature; the mosaic he leaves behind part of his magnum opus.
His hair, asymmetrically cut behind him, has gotten longer than he'd thought. His eyes, he notices not for the first time, are a piercing yellow; amber, like liquid gold. He imagines cats' eyes glowing unblinkingly in the darkness, under lamplight.
He touches his throat gingerly. Feels for any remnant of the burning residue he'd felt, but not even a drop remained. And yet, he knows it's not just something that disappeared easily; it's something that came back, and back, and back, no matter how many times you chased it off, tried to exorcise it, tried to break it down and swallow it whole.
Natsume stares at his reflection, and wonders when the last time he'd looked at himself like this.
(He'd been vulnerable, tears streaming down his face, blood and glass scarring his knuckles.)
He sees the cracks form along the mirror's smooth surface, figments of his mind crawling over like gossamer-light spiderwebs.
Natsume shakes his head, and they are swept away. Instead, he imagines flower petals dropping out of his mouth, the disgustingly sweet rose petals that Tenshouin loved falling out one by one, into the sink. Hanahaki disease, though arguably fictitious, only happens when you know you don't have a chance of winning, after all.
The petals keep on falling.
Because it's easier to pretend it's like that, nothing but an illness, a curse.
He turns off the light, and leaves the petals dripping onto the floor behind.
