Almost blind | Haobin

🔞9| bloody mirror |9🔞

‼️TW: blood, self-harm‼️

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Tears streamed down his face, carving silent rivers down his hollow cheeks as he stared at the mirror. The reflection mocked him, a cruel reminder of everything he despised. The feeling of being useless, of being grotesque, clung to him like a persistent shadow, haunting him more than ever in the suffocating coldness of the hospital bathroom. His naked body quivered, hugging itself against the chill, but he didn't care.

His hair was a tangled mess, a mirror of his fractured mind. Just hours ago, he had felt something rare-a fleeting sense of peace, a fragile glimmer of positivity-but it had been snatched away. One meeting, one cruel interaction, had shattered it all. The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating. His fingertips, trembling and uncertain, combed through his hair, retracing the places where he had touched him, sliding down to his neck. It was a touch that felt both achingly familiar and unbearably wrong.

It wasn't just his fingers he felt-it was as if someone else's presence still lingered, digging into pathways long scarred into his flesh. His breath hitched as his hands wandered over his body, stopping at his waist. Damn his waist. The memory of those hands caressing it, squeezing him as though he belonged to them, burned like an unhealed wound. The thought was nauseating, every recollection a blade twisting deeper.

He bit down on his lip until the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. The mirror glared back at him, a haunted, distorted sketch that seemed to come alive with every glance. Do I really look like this? The question gnawed at him, a cruel whisper in his mind. His headache throbbed, intensifying until his vision blurred. It was in this haze that the truth clawed its way to the surface: this place, this sterile, cold hell, was his punishment. And he deserved it.

His stomach twisted into knots, and he stumbled backward until the hard tiles of the bathroom wall stopped him. Sliding to the floor, he wrapped his trembling arms around his legs, burying his face in his knees. Today had been fine, better than fine. Why does everything always have to go wrong? Maybe he deserved all of this.

He couldn't escape the cycle, the endless routine of suffering that chained him here. Happiness was a mirage, a forbidden luxury. It wasn't meant for him, not even for a single day.

His father's hopeful eyes haunted him. The way he believed, or pretended to believe, that things were improving-it hurt more than anything else. He wasn't getting better. He was drowning, the weight of unseen stones filling his pockets, dragging him deeper into an ocean of despair. Each day added another stone, heavier than the last, and there was no surface in sight. No escape.

A gasp escaped him as he tilted his head back against the wall, tears streaming unchecked down his pale, shivering body. His mind darkened, spiraling into a void where reason couldn't reach. He stood shakily, drawn to the mirror like a moth to a flame, his reflection growing sharper and crueler with every step.

"I hate you," he whispered, his voice breaking. He wasn't sure if he meant the mirror, the reflection, or himself.

His fingers, shaking like leaves in a storm, brushed the mirror's edge. "I hate you," he repeated, voice cracking under the weight of raw emotion. "I wish the worst for you. Do you hear me? The worst." A twisted smile curved his lips, the kind that didn't reach his tear-filled eyes. He pressed his fingertips harder against the cold glass, feeling the sharp edge bite back until it cracked.

The fractured shard glinted in his hand, a tiny piece of his own brokenness now tangible. Blood seeped from where it sliced his fingers, crimson drops pooling on the floor. He didn't care. He barely noticed. The shard reflected a distorted fragment of his face-his tear-streaked cheeks, trembling lips, and wide, glassy eyes. "I hate you the most," he whispered, his voice thick with loathing, the words dripping like venom.