| Darkness Becomes Me Sandrine Shaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
| Look at me. Look at what I have become. I don't recognize myself. The face in the mirror is a stranger's face. The smile onmy lips is cold, shallow, doesn't reach my eyes. The look in those eyes is empty, their gleam doesn't come from within, isn't more than a reflection. I'm a hollow body, without heart, without soul, without hope. Yet, somewhere deep inside of me, there's something left, buried under all the hate, the rage, the coldness, stuffed and hidden in a far corner. Sometimes, though, I feel it breaking through. ... I wouldn't call it a heart, I wouldn't call it a soul, wouldn't call it conscience. Maybe... it's a trace of myself, of the person I used to be, a long time ago. Before the darkness embraced me. Surrounded me. Captured me. I reached the point of no return, where there's no turning back, where there's only one way to go on.There's no choice for me, no decision anymore. From now on,my life will follow the one path I have chosen. The path of darkness. No other option for me. Too late. Much too late. I didn't make this decision.-The decision was made. The moment I plugged the stake through that living body, that beating heart, that human being. One mistake, one single mistake, and my path was chosen. I won't deny that I'm good at what I do. But, that's me, no matter what I do, I give my all to be good at it. And I know that I am. No one else can fill this place, no one else can walk the path the way that I can. I kill and torture with enthusiasm. And while I'm doing it, I don't feel anything. No guilt, no greif, no regret.- I don't know those feelings when I snap someone's neck, when I push my knife through someone's heart, when I push someone's body into the depth. But sometimes...afterwards, like now, I stand in front of the mirror, looking at the face I see. A face that doesn't seem to be my own. Sometimes, I hate myself, disgusted by what I have become, by the lack of emotion I feel, yet knowing there's no way to chance it. But my hands don't tremble and my eyes don't cry. No more. I'm dying inside. Maybe I am already dead... A wave of rage and self-disgust sweeps through me and in a last jolt of life claiming my body, in a last struggle against the darkness, I raise my hand and smash the mirror. Glass is shattering. Broken pieces fall to the floor. Blood drips from my hand. A small red pool on the white bathroom floor. Look at me.I can still bleed. I'm still human. But the face in the mirror isn't my own. It's the face of darkness. . . . . . . . . . . . . End |
|