Soft Hector Munday part the fourth
He hated the mirror.
Every passing reflection snagged fast on his heart, sharp jolts of realisation which he could barely stomach on the days she leaked through the cracks of his pysche, growing fiercer to scratch at his walls.
He'd been so careful, so steadfast in putting those walls up, second after second, minute after minute, year after year of his childhood spent chasing the shadow of a happy life, of desperate attempts to catch up to the other children and be normal, to prove he was the same, just like them, not weird, or 'wrong'.
Or.
Or...
He was able to contain it most days, that familiar, welling rage. On the worst ones, he grit his teeth tight, hands balling into fists, concentrating on that hurt, and the all too familiar silence that dogged his lonely childhood, a sad, pathetic excuse that came from his failing attempts to fit in with his classmates, to be normal, to be like them. To be a good boy, even when he knew it was not fair that he had to prove it to them, because even as a child he knew, he knew that he should deserve to be happy too, why couldn't they see that, why couldn't they have helped him why couldn't-
The sudden crunch registers after the rush of pain, and he pulls his arm away from the wreckage of the screen.
Another TV broken.
Idly, he considers the blood dripping down his raised hand, somewhat dazed from his anger as he brings it to his face to examine the shards embedded on the knuckles.
His expression hardens at the reckless damage, a sick feeling of confirmation that is echoed without words inside his head.
'Oh Hector, what have you done now?...Always causing so much trouble...'
His mother's voice scolds him, a hateful sound that has him drawing in a long shuddering breath in order to dispel 'her' from his thoughts.
A beat passes as he stands silent, squaring his shoulders and regaining his composure. He notes that it has become harder to regain it when those older wounds resurface, something he was so good at, so proud of as he stood among the graduates at the academy, dark hair tossed back with a cheeky flash of teeth and posture straight enough to challenge anyone and anybody who would try to bring him down. To dare tell him he wasn't worth this.
Dimly, he registers the twitch of his injured hand as his muscles spasm, and he brings himself back to the present. His shoulders deflate with a sigh, and the older man briskly walks away to find a med kit.
He really needs to wear his mask more often...
