At last ze stands.

The mirror he looked in was soiled with grease of where fingertips had gently tapped. Hands that should have given birth to new things and created, hands that should had brought life and art along with them. Hands, there instead had been used to push others away from him. Hands, that had done so much harm to him. How he had used his fist to beat himself black and blue, sore and in trance on the inside. Fingers, that had picked up the blade from the table, dragged and created new wounds upon fading ones, because of the lack of space on his arm covered in scars. How he had used the tips of his fingers to gently tease the spot in the back of his throat until nothing was left inside of him.
He found his index finger softly tapping the surface of the dirty mirror in front of him, bend forwards to lean against it.
The sound of nothing met his ears, but seemed louder and more violent, more roaring, than any noise he had ever heard.
Shamefully, his eyes flickered over the image he found in the mirror. Quite a pathetic sight, he thought to himself. A tainted, shattered body, devastated by self-harm. Arms, that had gone from thin, to being fat, to a normal weight. That, messy hair and prominent bones stared back at him, almost in a mocking manner. But when he thought it over, he couldn't blame anyone than himself.
Broken and beaten blue on the inside, in a totally different level he had ever tried.
Silence ate him in a whole piece, chewed on him, and spat him out.
Slowly, he raised his head, only to find two eyes staring back at him from the mirror. He couldn't recognize them. Deep blue, like the ocean, gentle and subtle. Bashing eyelashes surrounding the outlines of the eyes, with bags underneath due to insomnia and weed addiction.
In those eyes, he discovered a past, a little child.

He saw the memories of a tormented kid, who had no friends in school. Saw how the classmates of the boy would pick up dead spiders and throw them after him, even though they knew of his arachnophobia. Saw them tease him about his emaciated body.
He saw the frowning mask of the boy, who returned home from school to his broken family. A mother on the verge of suicide, and an alcoholic father. He saw how the man who created the child, how he took the boy's head and threw it against the table beneath him, heard the sound of forks and knives hit the table as the head met the surface. It sent shivers down his spine, even up to this day.
 How the child had heard his mother's pained cries, her pleads for a simple way out and threaths of killing herself. The child heard it through half-closed doors, and had rushed to the kitchen, hugged her and told her not to do it, to the sobbing mother of his. Now, the child, who already wore a mask, had an armor of an adult.
He saw the boy growing up, bearing the guilt of being alive. Being confirmed over and over that he had no right to be in this world. That he was never meant to be in this world.
So the boy created his own world, all inside his head. That the world behind him was his own masterpiece, his product. But he did not know that the monsters was eating him alive.

The moist that should have been inside his throat was gone, etched into the walls of his gullet. He choked on his hollow reality.


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- outcast from a short story I'm working on, which needs to be re-written. Will eventually post the finished and re-written story. 
note about the title; "ZE" is a mix of "he" and "she", an androgynous word. "hir", means "his/her".

- Yeah Boy.