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Gentaro opens his eyes and the world around him is pitch black. Picking himself off the ground (if he can even call it that), he looks around at his surroundings but sees nothing—only darkness through and through.
He takes a cautious step forward, then another, walking pointlessly through the dark. His footsteps make no noise and the eerie silence makes even him wary.
That is until a very familiar voice comes from behind him and suddenly it feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.
“Are you having fun?”
Gentaro whips around so quickly that he almost loses his balance. In front of him is a mirror—no, himself.
“Well? How has it been?” the doppelganger asks, a hand elegantly framing his chin just as Gentaro always does. His smile is friendly but dangerous. “Parading through life as your brother.”
Gentaro’s blood goes cold. His voice is caught in his throat. He opens his mouth, but he can’t speak. He can’t even respond properly—no witty comeback or assured denial. Because after all, he’s not Gentaro Yumeno is he?
“It’s been fun, no? Pretending to be someone you're not?” The double takes a step closer, the same predatory grin on his face as he moves closer and closer, but Gentaro doesn’t move. Can’t move.
“Just how many lies have you told now? Tens? Hundreds? Perhaps thousands? Nothing surprising. That’s just who you are.”
He steps even closer and Gentaro finally takes a step back.
“What is the point of this?” Gentaro asks, finally finding his voice. “What do you want from me?”
The Gentaro lookalike’s eyes grow into crescents as his smile grows, his sleeved hand moving to stifle a laugh. “Me? Nothing. It’s what you want, Gentaro.”
His name sounds poisonous leaving the duplicate’s tongue. It makes Gentaro shiver. A second later, his double is right before him, gently caressing Gentaro’s cheek.
“Aren’t you tired, Gentaro? Don’t you want to stop this already? Don’t you want to stop the lies? Don’t you want to be free?”
Gentaro swallows, eyes trained hard on himself, unable to move. Too scared to move.
“Or perhaps…” His hands move from Gentaro’s face down to his neck. “You simply can’t stop.”
Gentaro lets out a stifled noise as the hands around his neck tighten and he quickly realizes he’s been choked by his own image.
“You love it, don’t you? Love being a fake. A false version of yourself. You love lying to everyone around you so much you can’t stop doing it.” His hands grow firmer around Gentaro’s neck, “How disgusting.”
Gentaro gasps for air, desperately trying to pry at the hands around his neck, but to no avail.
“Aren’t you sorry? Don’t you want to apologize to them? To him? Aren’t you a horrible human being? Tell the truth, Gentaro. Tell the truth.”
Gentaro coughs again, struggling to take in any amount of oxygen he can before he loses consciousness.
“Can you even keep living with these lies? Maybe you should just die with them. Wouldn’t that be so much easier?”
Tell the truth.
“Can’t you see you’re only hurting yourself?”
Tell the truth.
“Aren’t you sick of it all?”
Tell the truth.
“You’re a hypocrite.”
Tell the truth.
“You should just—”
Gentaro yells to the best of his ability and shoots his arms forward so quickly it throws himself and his doppelganger off balance, sending them both crashing down. The momentary release of his throat allows him to finally take in a big gulp of air, his shoulders heaving as he gasps for air. Without a second thought, he’s on top of himself, mirroring the same position he was in just moments ago, his hands wrapped around the lookalike’s neck just as tightly.
Even as his lips part with a gasp for breath, the condescending smirk never leaves his face.
“Is this it? Is this your solution? Continue to hide yourself in a lie?” He taunts, his voice hoarse in response to Gentaro’s actions.
Gentaro presses harder.
“Gen…taro…” He struggles.
“Shut up.”
“Did you…”
“SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP.”
“...become the "me" you wanted to be?”
Gentaro shuts his eyes and screams.
When he comes to he’s lying on a sofa in a dusty home. He’s breathing hard and his heart is pounding in his chest, the adrenaline from his dream pumping furiously through his veins.
He sits up quickly and stumbles his way to the bathroom. He twists the knob to the sink and splashes water on his face, a weak attempt at grounding himself once more. He turns the water off and grabs the nearest towel, drying himself before lifting his head to look in the mirror. Then he remembers. Dropping the towel, his hands immediately shoot up to his neck, inspecting for marks or any sort of sign of what just happened in his dream.
There was nothing.
His eyes move up to his face, haunted-looking and ghastly in the dim light of the bathroom. He stares at his reflection in the mirror. His brother’s gaunt face stares back. For a second—he swears the pale lips of his reflection twitch up into a smirk.
Gentaro recoils with a gasp, rushing out of the bathroom, nearly tripping over his own feet. He finds himself standing next to a dust-covered desk. His brother’s dust-covered desk.
Aren’t you sorry?
The voice in his head rings loud, scorched words repeating themselves back at him just as they were in his dream.
Don’t you want to apologize to them? To him?
“There’s no apology that can make up for the lies I’ve told.” Gentaro mumbles to no one.
There is nothing he can do that will ease the scalding pain in his chest at the turmoil he is facing. There are no right words to say or right thing to do. No right person to ask for help.
Nothing. No one.
Just like him.
His nails dig into the flesh of his palm with the pressure of his closed fists, definitely leaving little, painful indentions in his skin. He breathes in and out. In and out. In and out.
In-
He yells. He screams. He lets any hold of himself go and cries out. His wails go unheard in the empty studio, dust and cobwebs the only witnesses to his antics. That’s probably for the better. Had anyone else been there or nearby, they would definitely think he was crazy and call the police. Perhaps they’d think all of his yelling was a big cry for help.
It probably is.
He drops to his knees and sobs.
He doesn’t know what to do.
He’s lied so much and for so long that he doesn’t know how to stop. His entire existence is one big lie and no one knows it but him. The only person who could truly understand him—know who he really was deep down—was only an unmoving body in a white room.
He sinks to the floor, arms wrapping around himself comfortingly.
Even if no one else knows that I’m lying, I know I am.
All he can do for now is to continue living with the lies he’s told, longing so desperately to tell the truth.
For now, he’ll keep living with these lies.
Until he just can’t lie anymore.