A Home of Mirrors (Part 4)

***WARNING: Things get fairly violent/abusive from here on out.***


Jean stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, surprised by just how large is was–until he realized it was only half the size. The mirror taking up an entire wall, opposite the window, had fooled him into thinking the space as massive. He shook his head, and rubbed his eyes, feeling almost drowzy. He’d seen something downstairs in that other mirror, but what? It had been him, but…but not quite. Something about this house was wrong, something about the way his dad was acting was wrong. He stepped into the room, avoiding his own gaze from the mirror, suddenly…afraid of himself.

Fear wasn’t something he felt often, but he’d been afraid, this last week, with his father. His drinking, the screaming, how he kept catching his father staring at him, and even after being caught, he just…kept staring him down. Once, he’d woken up in his room, and the door to his room was open. He could smell that foul smoke off his dad’s cigar, from the dark hallway, and hear…huffing, and puffing…and why was he even thinking about this? It didn’t matter–he was almost out of here. Just one more year of school, and then he can get to college, and he won’t have to be the family disappointment anymore.

Who would have thought? An all american jock athlete, a disappointment to a family?

“It’s not your athleticism he hates, you know. Is the fact that you could do so much, and yet you do so very little.”

He spun towards the voice–towards the mirror, and found himself facing his reflection–or a reflection, anyway. He was a good distance from the mirror, but the version of himself that…that had spoken, was inches from the glass, barely on the other side. “Did…How did…”

“I see I got your attention, finally,” his double said, and stepped through the mirror without so much as a ripple. Jean could tell it was him, and yet they were so different. Jean was no small figure, at six foot three and two hundred and fifteen pounds of muscle, but his reflection was about an inch taller, and much thicker. Rather than a sleek build made for running, like his, this other him–it was clear he was a fighter, or boxer, really. Brawler would have been more accurate. Not only from the burly muscles and firm stance, but the scars, the puffy eyes, the missing tooth, when he grinned at him. “See, I don’t think it’s how little you do, but how little you do with it, which is such a shame. All you do is run. Run to catch the ball, run after the ball, back and forth in your little world on the field, chasing nothing,” he spit, and a wad of something black landed on the carpet between them. “Think you can run from me, little boy? Think you can outrun yourself?”

He tried. He dashed for the door, as his double finished speaking, but he headed Jean off and drove him into the wall hard enough to crack the drywall, stepped back, and let Jean fall to the floor. He cracked his knuckles, hauled out his cock, and started pissing all over Jean, where he was struggling to find his feet after taking that hit. “You’re mine boy,” the thing sung at him, and laughed, “You’re mine now, so better take it like a man.” Jean stumbled up, aiming for the door, but his double clocked him in the face, and sent him back to the floor. “You’re daddy’s gonna be so proud of you soon, though–wonder who’s gonna take our cocks better, you or him?”

Dazed from the punch, Jean couldn’t do much as his double started tearing at his clothes, ripping them to shred as he growled and gnashed at him, hammering him with a fist if he tried to get up. He shoved Jean’s face down, forced his ass high, lined up and forced it’s way in–quick, enjoying the scream as Jean lost his virgin hole to himself. “Fuck man, yer gonna love being me! This hole’s so fuckin’ sweet, fuck, gotta hand it to the fuck, this catch is real nice…”

Jean tried to ignore the stench of the piss soaking his skin, tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. With some embarrassment, he discovered his own cock was hard, and it almost felt like he, too, was inside someone. A greasy hole, that felt real…tight. He was pushing back without noticing, enjoying the phantom sensation of fucking himself, and then, clear as day…he could see himself, through the other’s eyes.

He looked down at himself, at his body, at how small he was, and all he felt was contempt. He had always been so weak, a waste of space, a waste of good time and energy. Well people would notice him now. He’d make a mark on the world with his fucking fists if need be!

As soon as it had appeared, it was gone, but Jean rebelled. That wasn’t him. This thing wasn’t what he wanted to be. He planted his hands to the wall, and shoved back, catching the other off guard, throwing him out, and off of him, and in a rage, Jean whirled on him with a scream kicked the thing in the groin, and watched his foot slide through it like it was brittle, shiny paper, and dissolve to dust.

Heaving for breath, not knowing what had just happened, he grabbed up what fragments of clothes he could and pulled them back on–at least until some thick hand wrapped it’s way around his wrist, a foot planted itself in the small of his back, and with a sickening pop, his shoulder came right out of the socket with a scream. “We’re not done yet–you think that’s all the darkness in your little soul? That was just the surface scum, boy.” His voice–it was his voice, but deeper, each syllable edged with blunt violence.

Jean rolled over on the floor, and saw the massive brute looming over him, body packed with muscle, arms, chest and belly coated with tattoos, black tobacco split leaking from it’s mouth down it’s chin to land on Jean’s chest–then it crouched down, and slammed its fist into Jean’s face.

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