elysium | tom riddle

3 | act i, scene iii

W A R N I N G

Knife usage.

╔═════ °• ✠ •° ═════╗

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊

╚═════ °• ✠ •° ═════╝

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 fingers, tensing as he looked up. Tom's reflection stared right back at him. Cerulean irises dipped in the deepest sea salts trailed the dirty mirror as he sighed and grabbed the razor from the sink again. Shaving cream covered most of his face, and he drew the razor to shave the fuzz off.

Tom was clad in a yellowish shirt that had been once white, time had punctured holes in it, and he found himself smelling the scent of shattered dreams and hopelessness from the orphanage. He hated the clothing but did not have much money to purchase a new one. Someone like him deserved exquisite clothing good enough for a king, yet he was in no position to demand such things.

He was careful while swiping the razor across his jaw, not wanting to see the sign of his fatality. One wrong move and Tom knew that blood would seep quickly if he did not do it right. He did not want to see the blood. Blood reminded Tom that he was human. The wound reminded him that he was nothing except a poor orphan with nothing to his name.

Tom gripped both sides of the sink, his knuckles turning white as he looked down. His lips curled upwards. He held on to the washbasin firmly, his stance unyielding. For a moment, Tom believed that his knees would buckle if he didn't grip it harshly. He had spent so much of his time in that damn library, researching ways so he could not be wounded.

His greater fear was death. It was not what came after death that scared him, but death was something he could not control or bend to his will. Tom Riddle could not eliminate that weakness.

Riddle quickly grabbed a towel near the sink, padding it softly to his jaw as he finished shaving. But he could not control his blue eyes snapping at the dirty surface of the mirror. Tom could hear no sounds except water droplets falling into porcelain that had seen better days.

The young man stood up straighter, cocking his head to the side as his reflections followed his movements. He pressed a finger to each corner of his lips, pulling upwards as if to smile, yet the expression looked too forced, too grotesque. He dropped his hands, letting them rest on his sides, then practiced again.

He did it until the smile was perfect, mimicking many things he had seen on television or the people surrounding him daily. If he were not careful, One wrong move could turn everything into shit. He was an expert at deceiving and mimicking. He was so good that sometimes he did not know if he was faking it.