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Mirror, mirror
On the wall,
Who is the fairest
Of them all?

Heís never really been interested in mirrors. Not until he lost the use of them, that is. Even Liam never much used the mirror. He wasnít just cultivating the dishevelled look; he simply dressed by guess, and dragged his hair back into some sort of unseen queue. He didnít use the mirror because he didnít much like what it showed him. If heíd looked more often, perhaps he wouldnít have run down the path that led here.

Here is where heís trying on clothes. Whistler is standing outside, because theyíve used Angelís breaking and entering skills, and Whistler doesnít want to be implicated if theyíre caught. The Powers may have sent him with offers of becoming someone, but it seems they didnít include any start-up cash with that, and Angel certainly doesnít have any. Angelís chosen a charity shop, catering to the needy. Isnít that what he is now? Heíll leave an IOU, though, and send some money when he can.

So, now heís standing in the communal changing room, trying on the few clothes they have that might fit and might be suitable. There are half a dozen mirrors on the walls. He can see the clothes on the hangers, looking as empty as he is, but when he puts them on? They become as lost as he is, sharing his damnation. If he dusts, so will they. Theyíre the only mirrors he has, now.

He canít really remember what he looks like. The first time heíd looked in a mirror after the soul was forced back into him, heíd wondered if there might be some vague hint of a reflection, something different. But there wasnít.

Carefully, he takes off the last of the new/old clothes, and really looks around him. The mirrors show reflections of each other, thousands of them, smaller and smaller, empty echoes of eternity. Like him. He stands between them, and sees them disappearing into forever. Like him.

Heíll never see himself again, whoever his self really is. Hereís a chance of a new self, though, a chance of becoming (for himself, or for her?), and he wonders what that will mean, as he stares into all those infinite emptinesses. Heís afraid that he might just lose himself again, as heís lost himself before. After all, mirrors reflect nothing but the truth, and the truth is, heís nothing.

And so he returns the gaze of all those glassy eyes, trying to make them see him, trying to become. But thereís nothing. He walks over to one and, drawing breath heíll never need, he huffs on it, but the mirror wonít accept even that evidence of his existence.

Heíll never see himself again. And that, he thinks, is something he should be grateful for. If he canít see whatís outside, then at least heíll never see whatís inside. He doesnít think he could bear that.

August 2005

Rating: For anyone
The Angel Texts or Blood Roses Forum. Otherwise, just let me know where.
Summary: Angelís reflections on mirrors.

A rosebud fic, written for the Blood Roses Forumís second birthday. And, at just under 500 words, it really is a rosebud. Yay, me!

Feedback: Pretty please. Send it to Jo
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