Monster

In the mirror

"I am a monster," Berwald kept on repeating to himself. The broad Swede towered over the sink basin, looking at his reflection in the mirror opposing him. His tough, unnerving blue eyes stared back at him in disgust.

He was always terrifying, even as a child. It was always because of his glare. His dark, cold glare. Tears started to well up in Berwald's eyes as he stared longer at the mirror. Memories came rushing back to him. How he was always alone, was always feared by everybody else. Whenever he thought he had found somebody, they slipped from his grasp when they could.

Every single time he tried to even get near someone he could see the terror in their eyes. Either terror, or anger. Never anything different.

It was because of his face, his cold glare. More tears spilled onto the floor. The Swedish man knew that, because of how he looked, he would never be accepted. Never be loved. Nobody ever thought about what personality he had. That simply did not matter.

Furiously, Berwald swung at the mirror and broke it, without so much a scratch on his knuckles. However, this disappointed Berwald, so instead he grabbed a knife from inside of the cabinet drawers. The knife was an old, rusty one, but it was still quite sharp. The hilt was made of dark pine wood, the blade from stainless steel. After thoroughly examining the knife, he decided to test the knife on a grimy sponge he found nearby. A clean cut.

Hands trembling, Berwald poised his knife above his wrist below. Words of hate swam around his mind. 'You will never be loved. You will always be alone. You are unlikable. You are a monster.' At this last sentence, he cut his wrist four times; one for each word. Crimson liquid oozed from these scars and trickled into the basin.

Yes, it hurt. Yes, it left scars. But this did not matter to Berwald. If nobody else cared, why should he?

The Swede swiped the blade, again and again, until it felt numb. Blood still trickling, he turned on the cold water and washed the crimson paint-like liquid down the drain. Though this was not enough. As long as he kept on living, he would not be satisfied.

Wet hands covered with both tears and water snatched the knife hilt one more time. If he did this, nobody would care. And he would be free. No more frightening people. No more crying. No more being alone. No more frustration. Only the peace of death. No one loves him enough to mourn him if he did go through with this. Everything would be okay.

The knife was aimed above his heart. One swing was all it would take. One swing would end his misery. One swing-

A jungle of keys and a creaking of a door was all it took for Berwald to drop the knife that was going to pierce his ribcage. A sweet but concerned voice rang through the house. Once again, shining tears blurred the Swede's vision. The young Finnish man's footsteps scurried up the stairs, bringing along the cries of "Ber? Where are you?" with them.

The door handle turned to reveal an extremely worried Fin. Rushing to Berwald's side, Tino's eyes started to sparkle with tears. Berwald was caught off guard by getting enveloped into a hug. He felt a warm, wet sensation on his shoulder which were Tino's tears.

"D-don't do it," sobbed Tino, trying to hide his glistening tears for Berwald's sake. "P-please. F-for me. Don't do it."

And this is when Berwald realised that he was wrong. Not everyone hated him. Not everyone was frightened of him. Not everyone avoided him. Most people, yes. But the one person who did not, the one person who actually was there to comfort him, to listen to him, to love him, was the one person who mattered most.

That is the reason why Berwald stopped his self-loathing. The reason that Berwald started to appreciate himself more. It was for that one person that he loved more than anything else that has ever existed. It was for Tino.