{Oh} mirror in the sky what is love? | Chaos

“Hey!” There is the crack of bone against my fist and the cry is stopped, feral bright eyes narrowing in irritation as the shock travels up my muscles to rest carefully in my ribs where it will hum for hours. The boy in question almost seems to crumple under my unexpected display of violence, knees buckling in slow motion until he’s thigh deep in the blankets of snow. Red spills out from his clenched fingers in harrowing designs, painting a morbid picture against a pure canvas for all to marvel at. I chuckle deeply and shift tangled raven hair from my eyes, covering the wince when my bruised fingers rake a little too hard against my skin.

Yes. A simple word and I jerk my head away from the invisible voice by my ear, licking my lips from nervous habit. It has become more and more common and it’s starting to scare me in that way that nothing else does, because this isn’t something that I can fix with my own bare hands. It reminds me of grandmami howling in broken tongues as the doctors check her over and over, unable to soothe her torment as old age robbed her mind and the way the girls that come in and out of our house - all battered and bruised and broken – have the hollow eyes that nothing can repair. I bite my lip and shake myself out of daydreams, painting the impassively cold expression against my countenance for the boy to see. “You don’t touch me. I don’t want you, you’re way older than me. Nobody does. You’re nothing.” We meet gazes, and something deep inside me hums content at the stricken lines in his face. “Get it?”

He nods once, and I allow a wicked grin to split my pale lips, showcasing a hint of bright teeth. “Good. If I see you again I’ll make you eat it.” I gesture at the snow and he blanches, looking at his creation before scrambling to his feet and vanishing. A trail of crimson tells the story of his escape.

It’s not like I ask for it. People confront me and the smirks they sport fuel something inside of me that I can’t control. It grows and grows until I can’t hold it in and they’re floored and cracked and then I feel so good that I want to hate it but can’t. My methods are crude and unable to stand up to polished skill but there, raw and waiting to be uncovered. Jackal watches me sometimes when I wrap my fists in preparation in that way he does when he thinks so deeply about things – he was a Victor a long time ago in the days long past. It has corroded his grasp on reality but his instincts are still razor-sharp , and I can respect that. I’ve been taught to hurt and hate others before they do the same to me and it seems the most logical option.

My fingers twang in pain and I allow myself to grimace, shaking out the slowly swelling digits and watching as the caramel skin grows into a reddish hue before my eyes. They need to be bound but I’m once again low on money – I’m a terrible thief and can’t hunt worth anything. The only thing I can do is fight and fling insults (but let’s face it, those aren’t the most productive ways of earning money).

Unbidden, my feet have moved me towards the town square where the merchants peddle their goods and business deals go on in the shady dark of the alleyways – even the winding labyrinths of the Sewers that are nothing but a legend on solid ground. When my fingers brush against a piece of expensive jewelry I am chased out with a broom, covering my head from the irate jeweler that throws choice curses I’ve only heard after sneaking into a tavern once or twice. Scowling, I brush off the snow that’s appeared on my aging jacket and rub the flakes from my head, regaining some of my dignity and trekking off further into the town.

A few boys from school nod at me when I walk by and I return the gesture – they are three years older than me and thinking themselves so cool with the cigarettes that they clench between cherry-red fingers. My height allows me the respect I would have to work twice as hard to earn, as it makes it easier to face up to the people that would question my tentative grasp on these streets. I am already 5”8 at nine years old, and my teacher believes me to have an old soul. Whatever that means I’m not sure, but I haven’t decided yet if I like the ring it bears.

There is the clink of copper that catches my eye and I zero in like a hawk to the kill, fingers twitching in preparation even as I glance around for a Keeper that could potentially ruin my parade before it’s even begun. She has fire-red hair that looks vaguely familiar, flashes of tendrils against the pristine playground I rule. Her mittenless hands clutch various pieces of miscellaneous items, and my knuckles throb in remembrance of the bandages I require. Making up my mind, I allow my feet to make as little noise as possible as I stalk carefully towards my prey.

Soon enough I am hovering behind her and my eyebrows raise by themselves at how young she is – any hesitation felt is squashed by the ruthless mantra I’ve begun to project and adopt (if I repeat it enough it will become true, and I can’t afford to be weak in this place), setting my jaw and flexing my fingers. A moment of silence before my tips rake up the copper coins, securing them into a now clenched fist and already beginning to sprint, throwing a quick smirk and a yelled thanks behind me.

Stealing always makes me feel so alive, even if it’s nothing more than a few pieces. Just the fact that I’m doing something I’m not supposed to makes a shiver of pleasure crawl up my spine, distinct from the cold that has begun to seep in through my bones.