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There’s someone in the mirror Terzo doesn’t recognize.
He should. That person is him, people say, while their fingers wrap around his arms and hands push on his back. The same ones who control him like a puppet, those who make him sing and dance round and round, they are the ones that clap and cheer for him while he's performing.
He's loved, they say. People love him so much. He shines bright like a star, like the whole night sky.
And yet, Terzo can't believe the person that smiles in the mirror is him.
Behind a dense coat of paint and silky, fancy fabric, there is a face of his own and a soul that belongs to him. Or so, it should. He’s free, as free as he could desire. He’s a son, to an eternal unholy father. A leader, to the masses. An icon, to so many inside the Ministry.
It doesn't matter. To himself, he’s a fool. A slave, tied down, chained to a microphone and a stage, devoted to everybody but himself.
When did he choose this life? When did he accept this?
Did he, ever?
“Stay still, your Eminence.”
Terzo’s head moves to the side, making the paint brush stain part of the white on his cheeks. The hand gripping his jaw presses tighter, long nails digging in his skin. It hurts, but he can’t complain. They won’t listen. They never do.
“Papa Emeritus III needs to be on the stage in 30 minutes.”
The voice is faint, merely an echo in his ears. Terzo’s face twitches again, and this time a hand falls on the top of his head, fingers wrapping around a few black strands of hair. Blood rushes in his veins and arteries, fighting to follow the distraught rhythm of his heart.
He’s panicking, experiencing everything and nothing at once, but the person in the mirror only smiles. Terzo's mouth widens too, raspy, painful chuckles escaping from it. Oh, fuck. He’s thirsty, so thirsty, but his throat is closed.
Terzo wants to scream, to punch the mirror and shake away from the hands that touch him and restrain him in place. He regrets this, hates this title and this greasy paint, hates the way it makes him look like Him.
Fucking Nihil.
He loathes it. It makes him sick.
“Well, Papa Emeritus III is not here,” he affirms, instead. There is nothing behind his eyes, at least nothing he recognizes. It feels like staring into the void, and discovering the void is staring right back at him.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” someone says. The nails poke deeper, leaving behind red marks as he is forced closer to the mirror. “He’s right there.”
The whisper of his voice, full of air, is fearful. It sounds like a secret, a confession no one should ever hear. “I don’t see him,” he murmurs, lowering his gaze. It’s practically impossible when the fingers on his hair pull him even closer. “Please, don’t make me. I can’t.”
Shrinking on the chair, he's frozen. Terzo is not ready to go out and face thousands of people. He can't sing and dance in front of them. What if he makes a mistake? What if they hate him? All these people want to see a charismatic leader, someone with raw sexual energy and power, not poor old him, a teary-eyed, trembling mess covered in paint and silk.
“Papa Emeritus will be on the stage in 20 minutes.”
“I can’t be him right now, please.”
The air fills his lungs fast, but it’s not enough. It lacks oxygen, consistency. Terzo desires to hide, to run away, remove all the makeup and take off this stupid suit, but there are so many hands touching him, so many ghouls incarcerating him… He can't move, can’t breath, can’t hide from them or himself.
No, Terzo can merely stare in the mirror, at a person that looks like him but it’s not him. He has become a monster of his own creation, a hungry creature that devours him to the very core. Papa Emeritus III tilts his head to the side, sultry gaze setting upon him, and Terzo wishes he could look elsewhere.
It disgusts him.
“Who else are you, if not Papa?”
A wide smile appears on the mirror. Face obscured by the shadows, Papa Emeritus grins at him. Terzo’s mouth is agape, air frozen in his ribcage. The pupils are tiny inside his irises, trembling with fear and realization.
Who is he? Who was he, before everything?
No one.
No one.
The last stroke of the brush draws a thin black line on his upper lip. His head nods once, silently, and the fingers finally release him. A tall mitre is placed on him, golden embroidery shining so beautifully. Under the dazzling lights of the vanity table, Papa Emeritus III laughs a hollow laugh.