A/N: Finale.

Chapter Six

I walk to the mirror hanging in the bathroom. Somehow I feel compelled to find the distorted figure staring back at me.

You did well, Phanty.

"It was only because of you. If you weren't there telling me what to say, I would have melted at his gaze."

You always loved that boy didn't you?

"No, I didn't. I realized only after he was gone, or I suppose, after I disappeared."

Doesn't mean you didn't love him.

"Who are you anyways?"

I think, therefore I am. Tell me, do you know who said that? Socrates. It's the truth isn't it? Although, shouldn't your existence be determined by how well you make decisions though? If you don't make any decisions, how can you assess how well you think? What you think about? How about even, if you think at all. Only if you think can you come to a conclusion, a conclusion is needed to create a decision to act on. Tell me, throughout these years, how many decisions did you make?

"Well, moving away from Santa Barbara, enrolling in M.I.T. The courses, to take chemical engineering, and to dabber in nuclear sciences," only now do I realize that I'm speaking aloud to the reflection, and that the reflection actually seems to be talking back.

Don't even try to pretend those were your decisions, Phanty; everyone else, but you, made those decisions. Your mother was the one that urged you to go to M.I.T., and you decided to follow in your father's footsteps by taking chemical engineering. Miss Skye, you literally have no interest in chemical engineering at all.

"You're lying."

I don't have the capability to lie.

"You're lying."

Stop being irrational.

"YOU'RE LYING."

You don't have any right to ye—

"SHUT UP. SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" I scream at the top of my lungs and punch the mirror, repeatedly, until the motherfucking reflection could no longer be seen through the cracks.

You have always revered science about all else. Why are you acting so unnatural as to destroy this lovely mirror? It hasn't done anything to you.

"I exist. I know I exist. I have to. I-I exist." I'm trembling. I'm cold. Why am I so cold? I can't feel my hands

Prove it.

"How the FUCK do I prove I exist, oh omnipotent figure?"

Make a decision.

"What decision? How can I make a decision?"

Pick up that knife you have in your drawer, and decide to carve something.

"Carve what where?"

Haha, Phanty, we both know the obvious answer to both those questions. It's not like the existence of that knife, and the usage of it, hidden in the cupboards, behind all your junk is any mystery to you.

That was definitely the truth. "If that is what constitutes as a decision, then haven't I already made one, or two?"

The figure laughs again. Violently, like a storm. Those two words carved onto you, they were not optional, and you know that. You couldn't live without the reminder of those two words, echoing in your mind everyday; a constant battle within your soulless being, a battle that would never cease.

I look at the words. I can feel the scars burning into my skin. The coarseness of my body, trying to repair my damage, was all too familiar at the touch. Two words that literally meant everything to me. Reality—gripping me from the side, never letting go of the left arm that it possesses. It always pulled me back when I was in too deep. Me, who always wanted to believe my lies so badly that my mind would sometimes convince the rest of "me" that it was actually the truth, reality pulled me back, back to the world.

The second word, always supporting me from the bottom, my right leg, the only reason why I haven't collapsed—Delusion—something I was just, rightfully, accused of living in. When my world collapsed in front of my eyes, this lie, was the only thing that kept me going; the only thing convinced me to throw away everything that I was and become somebody else.

"There's nothing else required to be carved onto my skin."

How about that one something, or someone, that is at the centre of it all, That which you look back to in reality, and what you run away from in your delusion. How about the one thing, that belongs right in the heart.

My hands tighten around the knife I retrieved, shaking.

It will feel good. Trust me.

I raise it to my chest, the centre, lightly placing it on my skin.

It will be perfect.

The first feeling is always pain, a gentle stinging, if that exists. The second is relief. There's nothing more calming, more soothing, than watching hot red liquid spill out of your own body. I pull it downward, to the same horizontal plane as my first rib. Then I create a curve, to the right, and up one-quarter of the way, creating a perfect "J". My vision is already blurring and I feel faint, I realized I must have hit multiple arteries from all the blood dripping out of me. With my last ounce of strength, I push the knife into my chest, until I can feel the metal hilt on my skin.

I can't see much other than red. Red everywhere. It's almost, nostalgic. Sometime, somewhere in the past, I feel like I was in the same exact position, lying down; except this one feels different, more serene perhaps. I can't remember where exactly I was like this though. I can't remember. Who. What. Where. When. How. Why. It's all so meaningless now.

"P-Phanty?" Is that actually a person?

I can almost feel this persons touch. Familiar. So familiar and warm.

"I've already said my goodbyes."