Turmoil Behind The Mirror

Karma: Thank you so much for beta-reading my story!!! You’re a wonderful beta!

Tsuki: Here it is! Finally, the sixth chapter! And it contains gore :p Hope you enjoy! Oh, and thank you so very much for reviewing each and every chapter of Turmoil Behind the Mirror.

vampyrlover12889: Thanks a lot for reviewing this! Hope your friend’s brother isn’t upset… Hehe… :p …Regards!

Screw: I was touched by what you said about Jon being a character you could actually care for as a reader, for I have known the feeling and it is some kind of silent comfort (sometimes quietly disturbing) from a personal point of view. Hope you like the outcome of the story.

GetOnYourKnees TimeToPray: Hehehehehehe! I know you’d read it sooner or later! Hope you liked it, though. I know you’ll illustrate my story wonderfully. Please take care, and I hope you like the sixth chapter (and the outcome of the story).


Sorry for the slow update! Thank you all guys who reviewed. You really encourage me for keeping up with Turmoil Behind the Mirror!

So, on with the story….

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“My wounds, so deep
My veins open wide
Letting flow, my distress
Letting flow, my request….”

--Samael

Darkness greeted him as usual. Jon yearned to be engulfed by that darkness, to be part of it. He despised his own material nature. Jon craved for something beyond his reflection.

Walking down the alleyway with utter indifference, he realized he had to be quick. He hated to work on something hurriedly. The moon’s dim light encouraged him to go on.

The chills running down his spine reminded him if old considerations and old second thoughts. So taking his time, he mourned.

An old remembrance from his sister came to him, menacing to throw everything he had on mind away.

He decided tears were just too much to bear right now. He then felt anger at himself for being so weak, and drowned in the disdain he felt toward everything surrounding him; he kept on walking with steady pace.

The dead end alleyway wrapped his senses.

The darkness’ breath caressed his face, brushed his hair, and warmed him up, like the hot steam of a hidden machinery ready to engulf him. And he inhaled deeply, smiling at his still smoldering soul. Jon kissed the night, and shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he abandoned himself to his instinct’s beckoning.

The humid air lingering around him seemed to make the walls sweat.

{ The dirt from which you’re built will stuff your throat from time to time…. }

// We’re made of clay. There’s nothing I have to thank to this mortal coil //

{ Does it matter, then? }

// The only thing that would matter is where the ashes lay // Jon thought, not in the mood to keep it up with the silent amusement of the voice, for it would never stop. He took a better hold of his backpack, which was hanging loosely from his right shoulder.
He knew *he* would be there.

“Hey, Jon,” the shadow said in a low voice. Jon only smiled, the sent of blood already filling his nostrils.

Closing the distance between them, Jon stretched out his hand to caress his victim’s throat -- close enough to feel the heat coming form the form next to him -- and placed a soft kiss on the other’s chin. He could taste the salty, unshaven skin.

Then, moved by unnatural will, Jon closed his fingers on the tender throat.

“Hey, Jon, go easy on me.”

Jon sharpened his gaze and scrutinized the face enlightened by the upcoming light of a window nearby.

“Shhhh…” Jon whispered pressing his index finger against the man’s lips.

{ Every time you trust them, you lose in the end.… }

// *Sigh* //

Letting go of the other’s throat, he crouched down and went through his backpack.

“C’mon, kid. I didn’t know you were so desperate. Just spread--” The silhouette spoke with irony and fake sense of power, but it rang like mockery to his blue-eyed companion.

“Oh, I will do more than that.”

And hiding away in the darkness what he had got from the bag with a sound of a clicking metal case, he looked up to a face disfigured by the shadows deceiving the eye.

Tonight he had chosen the harpy blade, and caressed its shape. He toyed with it for a moment, and then hid in the dark, smiling widely while he put the leather phallus away in one of his pockets. The dim light emanating from that window broke the cocooned night and revealed his victim’s disturbed features.

Jon stood up slowly, gracefully, while closing the distance between them, savouring the sensuous moment. He inhaled deeply once more, yearning to be lost in time. He then closed his eyes while slowly unzipping the man’s jacket, sneaking his left hand under the cozy fabric.

The dealer grabbed Jon’s hips, forcing the boy closer.

Jon didn’t protest, but felt sick at the touch. He tightened his grip on the blade, letting the man feel the hot breath against the crook of his neck.

He quickly led the knife in his right hand under the jacket, embracing the body heat. Then, with graceful speed, he shoved it in the back of his canvas, between the upper ribs, and deep into one of his lungs.

Suddenly, moved by unnatural force, he snatched the dealer’s throat with his free hand, with just enough strength for the other not being able to utter a sound.

The other took his time to react, for panic had reached deep into his limbs. He tried to shove Jon away, but his left lung was already heavy with blood. He felt the unforgiving asphyxia burn his throat, already tasting the salty copper in his tongue.

He struggled, but weakness numbed his mind, and Jon’s grip was too tight.

Jon then gave way to a welcoming smile, a smile proud of its glittering teeth; a smile carved on an unreadable expression.

He kissed the dealer’s forehead with a goodnight kiss and twisted the blade, feeling it caress the ribs.

The victim grasped for air, but then the predator reached his pocket, taking out the leather artifice and grinned at his companion while forcing his jaws to shove it all the way down his throat.

The chocking sounds made him feel the need to swallow something sweet; yes, the melodic spasms made him feel warm.

Jon watched the man die, still in his tight grip.

Lying him down on the ground as if asleep, he noticed how the pocking black bottom of the phallus looked like a mockery to him.

Jon snapped out of his lethargic ecstasy and stripped the guy, took out some wire, and bound his wrists and ankles, then around put it around the neck. When he tightened the knots, he forced the body into a fetal position while lying on his right side. A pool of blood was starting to spread around him. Careful enough not to step on it, he woke the rusty axe out of its sleep.

Taking a deep breath, he began chopping the corpse’s head off. He then forced it a few more times on its back until the spine was exposed and the cracked ribs pocked through the tattered skin. Standing there for a moment, he silently contemplated his work. It was only moments later when his most beloved brush gashed the face’s features. Slicing the cheeks, he made sure of destroying the jaw’s muscles so that the face smiled forever. The way he then positioned the corpse’s arms made it appear as if he was simply cradling it, all while quietly looking down at its chest. He smiled at the essence of that ungrateful and blackened heart which beated no longer, mocking the irony of its existence.

Now they could see. The art of an inefficient machinery.

Their own reflection.

Collecting the blades and the axe, he shoved it all in his backpack. And with a last glimpse of farewell to his piece, he walked away; he walked home.

// Now the air tastes different to my skin…. //

He looked up to the sky, spotting the guarding moon.

// For you and your ambiguous promises of indulgence…. For you…. //

{ …For him…. }

// Not this once… for this was the promise made to be broken…. //

{ You turn out unexpectedly merciful }

// …Just… tapping the vein…. //

{ Ah… but now that…. }

// Quiet now… // Jon thought, growing even more sick and tired.

He felt like sleeping a long sleep; for never having to use those borrowed eyes of his. He just felt like shouting into nothingness that these eyes weren’t his.

The tears burning his face brought with them the pale, almost sweet remembrance of what seemed not to belong to him: the true grasp of anything alive to his senses.

// May you rise as you fall…. //

For all the reasons forgotten….

He reached his doorstep after 20 minutes of quick wandering, and after closing the door behind him, abandoned himself to the darkness. Sliding against the wall to the floor, he sobbed loudly; he let loose the desperation everything awakened in his mind.

He sobbed himself to sleep, feeling the knot hurting in his throat, and feeling the tears give him the warmth he asked for. He slept.

-

He regained consciousness very slowly, refusing to stand and fully wake up. For once, he didn’t care what time it was, but the singing of morning pigeons made him wonder if it really was as late as he had thought.

The scenes from last night were dancing in front of his eyes, pacing back and forth through his mind. It only served to make Jon grin to himself.

Days passed by so ferociously fast, it made him dizzy sometimes. And there, lying on the floor with his backpack as a pillow, he remembered how he had told himself that he’d clean up his room.

Jon felt the claws of deicide closing their grip, so before they did, he stood up. He had to admit it to himself, though; at least the cleaning up would have his mind busy and distracted.

Then a glimpse of comfort made him feel safe, so he started to work on it, for it really stank in there.

He had had his catharsis; the escape valve. Now he would be able to sever himself for a while. At least for today.

Jon started by washing, cleaning, and drying all of the blades he had used, including his brushes. Not forgetting the axe, he took it back to the basement after having cleaned and polished it.

Now he had to get rid of the smell of blood.

It was so sweet for him, but so bitter afterward. So he wandered around the house just to collect all the dirty clothes. He even ventured himself into his own room and opened the windows all around the first floor -- and the curtains too, letting in the morning inquisitive sun.

Having done that, he began undressing himself. He soon headed downstairs to do the laundry, taking the dirty backpack with him.

He couldn’t resist looking at the clock. Nine in the morning.

Jon shrugged and turned on the stereo. Compassed by some KMFDM’s melody, he headed toward his dorm, taking the garbage can with him.

He dropped empty bottles to the garbage, along with the syringes lying on the floor, crumbled drawings and old newspapers piling on his desk, as well as empty cigarette cartons. He unwrapped his arm and threw away the dirty gauze and bandages, smiling at his bruised and swollen forearm.

Jon changed the sheets and covers to make the bed, then put the piles of books on the floor back on the shelves, not forgetting to empty the ashtrays. He took all the half-filled glasses to the kitchen, washed the dishes, and took out the garbage.

And all the while, his mind was a blank page, which he thanked. He even smiled to himself when he took out the vacuum cleaner and finished his chores.

He then got back to the laundry, to the clothes in the dryer, before going to work on the bathroom floor. As soon as he had gotten there, however, he quickly took notice of all the shards that had belonged to the mocking mirror on the wall. He ignored them as best as he could.

And finally, it was time for the long-awaited hot shower, in which he worked on his wounds tenderly and untangled his long mane. He felt utterly strange doing all this, and asked himself why. Letting the water embrace him, Jon wondered about it. Why. Such a simple question and the most difficult one to answer. But he didn’t want to torment himself anymore, at least not for today. So he let it flow, and allowed for it to be washed away by the running water.

Turning off the spray, he quickly dried himself up and tended to his wounds with fresh bandages and then headed downstairs for clean clothes. Choosing a pair of cargo pants, a black t-shirt, and a black zipper hoodie, he yawned and picked up some money to go buy some cigarettes and beer. He pulled at the hood over his head and walked down the street to the nearest grocery store.

Once there, he bought a flip of cigarettes and three six packs of beer, and headed back home.

On the way back, he enjoyed toying with the feeling of the cold wind whispering to him, quieting the voice and dancing though his wet mane.

Jon stopped for a minute only to hear his heart beating in his chest, pounding in his ears, and gave out a loud sigh, feeling chased by sadness and bittersweet melancholy.

By the time he got home and closed the door behind him, it was so quiet that the only thing that reached through to him was the chained melody of the ticking clock.

Jon felt a chill run down his spine while he looked around the place.

He headed to the kitchen and stuck the beers in the fridge, took one, and walked to the living room. Sinking into the sofa, he lit a cigarette. He gave a deep draught of smoke, savouring it while it filled his lungs, and opened the beer to take a few gulps, deciding to drown in ironic comfort.

He had homework to do.

Jon felt materialistic and mundane by doing and thinking of all of these insignificant tasks. He didn’t quite see the point to it, and it felt disturbing never finding a reason to anything he did.

The kid prevented himself of thinking too much about it; he feared the pain it brought.

Letting out a deep sigh, he stood up and went for his notebooks. Going back to the living room -- and realizing it was one in the afternoon -- he gave himself up to the lame assignments.

{ Why…? }

// Not now…. //

{ Right now…. }

// Shut up…. //

Hour and a half later, he finished his tedious homework, along with the third beer, and stretched out on the couch. He lit a cigarette.

// The glory of the defeated…. //

He looked at his lighter while giving a deep draught….

// This is all there is to know. This, and only this, is what teaches me the essence of what never should have been. This “nevermore,” this “nevertheless,” is a “forever” dressed in agony…. //

“Ah… the ticking clock… the ticking clock… the ticking clock….”

He felt in some form of those strange good moods of his.

// Those moods Chris finds creepy…. //

Jon smiled widely while putting out the cigarette and lighting another one.

After a few minutes of watching the smoke dancing voluptuously in the air, he stood up and went to his room to grab a book. After a while he picked “Paradise Lost” by John Milton. He sat Indian-style on his bed and started reading.

// … O Prince, O Chief of many Throned Powers,
That led th\' imbattelld Seraphim to Warr
Under thy conduct, and in dreadful deeds
Fearless, endanger\'d Heav\'ns perpetual King;
And put to proof his high Supremacy,
Whether upheld by strength, or Chance, or Fate,
Too well I see and rue the dire event,
That with sad overthrow and foul defeat
Hath lost us Heav\'n, and all this mighty Host
In horrible destruction laid thus low … // (*)

He wrote down the quote on a piece of paper and put it in his pocket.

After thirty pages, he lifted his eyed from the book and looked though the window, watching the rays of light playing on the grass outside. The rays of light that were creeping in were almost tangible. Jon stretched out his right hand to play catcher with them, feeling the skin being warmed up. Fixated on the shadows, his fingers traced on the carpet.

// It’s disturbing, you know…? How shadows are one of the only things on two dimensions, same as a reflection. Everything else is on third, but these two. Like they were foretold messages reaching trough crystalline nature…. Hummmm…. //

Jon pulled his hand close to his face and stared at it… its movements, its complexion… the long fingers attached to the palm in uneasy complexity.

{ Yes… and those fingers have killed, yet they look so frail…. }

// I know…. //

And standing up, Jon looked for his pencil case. Choosing a 4B carbon chalk, he roamed the walls for a free space. Finding none, he walked to the corridor. There was plenty of wall there, and inspired by what he had read of Milton’s book, he started sketching an angel on the naked wallpaper. The sketch was big enough to be as tall as he.

{ Natural size…. Practical…. }

// It will be the Morning Star…. //

Jon put on some music and kept on sketching while humming to the Soilwork song that was currently playing on his stereo.

He grabbed a beer, lit a cigarette, and watched the sketch. He decided to take a few steps away from it to see if it was proportionate. Retouching the shoulders of the figure, he moved on to the head. Then… the face.

He left the wings for the last moment, and sketching great and impressive wings to the silhouette, he felt satisfied.

Jon went to his room and was looking after his box of pastels when he heard the doorbell. And kept on looking. Then the doorbell rang again.

// Damn! It’s fucking Sunday … //

He found the box and went back to the angel waiting for him. But before he could even open the box, the doorbell pierced his ears again.

He gave up his attempted intention of ignoring it and went to see who could it be.




( * ) “Paradise Lost” by John Milton.