Blood Mirror

Scene

I Hadn't cut myself too deep this time. Honest I didn't. Trust me, there's been more blood spilt on these tiles before. I'm surprised the bathtub hasn't rusted over with how much water and blood I've dowsed that thing with.

I needed this blood, for my boredom.

You see, after a certain point of repetition, life can become very boring. Especially slaving away at the factory I work at. With every step of a machine peddle, every push of their button, you desire nothing more than to eat a bullet. After you delicately salt and pepper the barrel to have one last good meal, of course.

But just because its metal, doesn't mean the food you've seasoned isn't cold though. No no, you cooked this meal yourself with the least-efficient method; body heat. After all, how else were you going to sneak that gun in, other then buried under the three layers of pants you have on? It would be almost comforting really, the metal would be warmer than your own fingers.

If you wanted it to go out like that I mean.
No see that's too much work, I mean. Not really, cause of course after I paint the walls with my brain, it wouldn't be my problem. But I like the janitor at work too much to give him that putrid scene to clean up.

I don't mind cleaning up my own blood at home. Though I learned pretty quick to buy the orange sponges. They blend the blood quiet nicely.

"And right here we're gonna paint some gloomy little tree's." The beloved painter would say in another reality. I mean, those have to exist right? Or should I say the MULTI-verse. How do you categorize a lot of things into one? It's like the opposite of pants. Think about it, the only time you say "I'm gonna put on my good pant today." Is when you're trying to entertain yourself with dry humor.

Anyways, I had knocked over the fifty-cent plastic cup that was filled with my blood. That partially coagulated mess sloshed onto the peeling wallpaper in the bathroom. Resembling some modern day, bullshit splatter paint that would sell for millions. That would be a tad bit harder to clean up. How do those artist clean up their attempts to splatter paint actually?

"What's this guy doing with a cup of his own blood in the bathroom? And why does he ramble about weird shit?" I assume you say as you read this. Morbid curiosity is a bitch, isn't she?
If you must know, I was bored. Tired of life, and had the thought:
"What if there was a way to look at myself, and speak to myself like an outsider? What would I think of myself if I saw this disheveled appearance?" With my unruly beard that grew only under my chin. "What would I think of myself as a person?" And on and on these thoughts went, down a perplexing rabbit hole that lead to here: 

Me leaning across the sink, staring at my own reflection. Noticing the blood I smeared onto the mirror as an impromptu frame had trickled down, staining the faded wall. And the grungy faucet handles. Eventually trickling down to the gaping hole that served as the drain. Or a pornstars ass if you looked long enough. Not that I would know. Though under these conditions, it wouldn't be an enjoyable wank.

I had forgotten to pay the electricity bill this month. I had a wide variety of scented candles to kept me company most nights. Midnight Sandbar had joined me in the bathroom tonight. Putting out it's own flickering dances. Which was odd. If there was one, I was certainly numb to it at this point. You can only lose so much blood before your faculties begin to play tricks on you.
I had no concept of time anymore as a result. The only clock I had was shattered to a thousand little pieces. I wish I could tell you I was drunk when I spiked it into the tile floor. But I wasn't focused on that. Or chipped, missing tiles. Only the mirror. Only my disgusting face staring back.
Eventually the mirror itself fogged over. If you've ever been on a jet, looking out the window as it flies through the middle of a cloud, it was kinda like that. The candle still danced its dance though, providing the only source of reality at this point in the night.