In the Mirror
It was my chance to prove I was worth noticing; that I could hold my own with my peers. For once in my life, I would be accepted, admired, revered.
How could I have been so blind? I am not a killer, a rapist, or a torturer. And yet, the flashes of memories wrecking havoc with my conscience beg to differ. I was never understood as a child, never loved, never dear to anyone. I had no friends, only enemies. But I did well in school. I was quiet and dutiful, completing my homework on time in neat, logical sentences.
So how did I come to this, staring at myself with contempt, my hands dripping red with the blood of innocents? My heart beats wildly in my chest, while my mind replays my dark deeds, my complete and utter debasement and disregard for life. Who am I to play Creator? Who am I to value my life over another’s?
My stained robes are discarded on the floor as I stand here shaking from head to toe. My thoughts are screaming, trying to escape but going nowhere. The pain, the blood…the cries I will never forget as long as I live.
And these scars.
I stare at my pale body in the dark room, the mirror reflecting the outward evidence of the torment I find within myself. The physical reminders of my initiation, angry scars that crisscross my body, stand in stark contrast to my once familiar, unblemished skin. I know there will be more scars. They will go deeper and deeper until everything I am or ever was is stripped away, wound after wound, night after hideous night.
Is this who I have become? If so, I am a monster.
I turn from the mirror-to find her looking back.
She is the only mirror I need. In her eyes, I see who I used to be, who I am deep inside, who I can become once again if only the war would cease. She sees past what I cannot and tries to convince me that my role is important. Sometimes, I feel as if I can believe her-that thousands will live because of the few that suffer. Mostly, her words don’t connect with me but her soothing voice rolls over me, as if she can cleanse my soul.
She gives me hope.
Maybe one day things will change.
How could I have been so blind? I am not a killer, a rapist, or a torturer. And yet, the flashes of memories wrecking havoc with my conscience beg to differ. I was never understood as a child, never loved, never dear to anyone. I had no friends, only enemies. But I did well in school. I was quiet and dutiful, completing my homework on time in neat, logical sentences.
So how did I come to this, staring at myself with contempt, my hands dripping red with the blood of innocents? My heart beats wildly in my chest, while my mind replays my dark deeds, my complete and utter debasement and disregard for life. Who am I to play Creator? Who am I to value my life over another’s?
My stained robes are discarded on the floor as I stand here shaking from head to toe. My thoughts are screaming, trying to escape but going nowhere. The pain, the blood…the cries I will never forget as long as I live.
And these scars.
I stare at my pale body in the dark room, the mirror reflecting the outward evidence of the torment I find within myself. The physical reminders of my initiation, angry scars that crisscross my body, stand in stark contrast to my once familiar, unblemished skin. I know there will be more scars. They will go deeper and deeper until everything I am or ever was is stripped away, wound after wound, night after hideous night.
Is this who I have become? If so, I am a monster.
I turn from the mirror-to find her looking back.
She is the only mirror I need. In her eyes, I see who I used to be, who I am deep inside, who I can become once again if only the war would cease. She sees past what I cannot and tries to convince me that my role is important. Sometimes, I feel as if I can believe her-that thousands will live because of the few that suffer. Mostly, her words don’t connect with me but her soothing voice rolls over me, as if she can cleanse my soul.
She gives me hope.
Maybe one day things will change.