One-Shots #2 [Boboiboy]

8, angst | survive

Based off of NightmareBlozzom's book, "Mirrored Swap." I highly recommend you check it out.

Summary: Halilintar is not having a great time.

Since forevermore, the word death had become synonymous with the name Halilintar.

It's a dance with the devil; a slow Waltz before the gates of hell.

Thunderstorms, lightning, a coming disaster. There's nothing poetic in his allies' conquest for blood. He was the lightning, the foreboding haze before the thunder. Wherever he goes, destruction is sure to follow.

He hates this.

Red. Red on his hands, red is all there is in the mirror.

Black. Black in his hair, black that is his soul.

The faucet is running, the basin overfilling onto the floor. He clutched both sides of porcelain, back hunched over as he stared at his own runny reflection in the water.

He wants out.

The bathroom lights flickered overhead. A moment between life and death. That was all the time he needed to escape, to run from these impostors and out of this ghastly station. He could leave everything behind, turn his back from this war-torn path and begin anew.

A pipe dream.

There was no salvation for a sinner like him. No moment of reprieve or forgiveness at the end of his road. There was too much blood on his hands, gore and flesh trickling like melted butter between his fingertips.

They say never to shoot the messenger, but in reality he was just as bad as them.

Maybe this was his punishment. To witness first-hand what could have been, a kinder fate that never would have come to pass. They're smiling now, but god knows how long this façade will last. It's only a matter of time that he'll find himself laying in an open coffin, six twisted smiles looming over him as they buried him shallow.

Maybe that was true.

Maybe he was already dead.

Halilintar looked up, water trickling down his face.

A face that wasn't his own stared back at him, looking so eerily similar but not quite. With caramel eyes and a hateful look in his eyes, it was as if someone had taken a picture of Halilintar and passed it through a filter.

Open palms emerged from the glass, wrapping around his neck. Thumbs pressed into his windpipe, fingers digging into skin. A high-pitched whine sounded within his skull, darkness hovering over the edge of his vision.

The face in the mirror was his, but it wasn't him.

Or maybe...

"Give my life back, impostor."

Maybe this was a stolen life.

He croaked a garbled cry for help—

—and the door knocked three times.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

"Petir?" Blaze's voice permeated through the metal door, slicing through the overwhelming static and fog. "You in there?"