Sugary flicks of molten vanilla engulf the dark room. It is not the caressing aroma, but the wild and loose fragrance – almost a sudden death if taken beyond prescription. I cover my nose, but the destruction will move between the gaps of my fingers.
A single warm bulb flares to illuminate the content of the room – empty; just four gray-painted walls. I stand on the center and search around when a voice erupts behind me.
“How are you?”
Blood drips from his white shirt – a print ‘Journalist’ in bold at the center of his clothing. He has a hole within his chest and what seems to be several gunshots surrounding his body. He holds a crimson pen and a crumpled piled of stained papers – perhaps by his own blood.
He has lost his one eye – another rush of his blood coming out from his eye socket. His teeth are blown and his nose in an odd angle. There is a jab on his cheeks, and his skin bruised and swollen. He looks into my eyes. “I’ve told the truth; it’s your turn.”
My back softly hits the wall and I howl – from fear and frustration. I remove him from my vision, but it gathers no effect. I open my eyes and he is still standing before me.
In a sudden, I realize, the man I am glowering at is me.
I am gazing into a mirror.
WORD COUNT: 236
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