Work Text:
Wolfgang’s reflection in the mirror was blurry through the mist of unshed tears. His hands, trembling violently, gripped the file with desperate resolve. His fingers felt numb, but the burning pressure in his head; his horns,was more than enough to remind him of the reality of what he had to do. It hurt. God, it hurt.
But he couldn’t stop. He had to erase this part of himself, just as his father demanded. The sharp sting of the file grinding against his horn made his vision swim, but he fought to keep his gaze locked on the reflection in front of him.
His father had made it clear. This was the only way.
And then he heard it. The soft, deliberate sound of shoes on the polished floor. Too sure of itself.
Wolfgang froze, every muscle in his body tightening. The presence behind him was oppressive, a dark weight that threatened to crush him if he so much as breathed wrong.
He didn’t dare turn around.
“Wolfgang,” came the voice, smooth like a blade, cold as ice. His father’s voice. Wolfgang flinched.
“Don’t,” he whispered, the word barely audible, as if he could somehow stop what was about to happen. His hands continued their trembling, trying to file down the horns that were never supposed to be there, but his father’s shadow loomed over him like a suffocating cloud.
He felt the hand on his shoulder before he saw it, large and gloved, fingers too firm, too final. It was a touch that promised pain, not comfort. A reminder of everything Wolfgang was trying to forget, a reminder of everything that had been drilled into him since the day his mother vanished.
The hand shifted, pushing the file from Wolfgang’s grasp with cruel, practiced ease. Wolfgang’s chest tightened, the panic surging inside him, but there was no room to protest. His mouth felt dry, as if every word, every breath he might have taken, had been swallowed by the weight of his father’s presence.
“Let me help you,” his father murmured, his tone eerily gentle, almost sickening in its false calm. The words dripped with malice beneath the surface, yet it was as if he truly believed he was doing what was best. He was the only one who knew what was best.
“No,” Wolfgang managed to choke out, but it was weak, defeated. He couldn’t stop him. He never had been able to. His father always had control.
His father’s hands, large and cold, took over, guiding Wolfgang’s trembling fingers away from his own horns. The gloved fingers felt like ice against his skin, and the harsh scrape of the file against his horn sent a surge of white-hot pain through his skull. Wolfgang bit down on his lip, desperate to hold back the screams, but all that escaped was a choked gasp. The tears welled up, blurring his vision as the sound of the file scraping against bone echoed in the quiet room.
“Don’t you get it, Wolfgang?” his father whispered, his voice too calm, too steady. “You’re not allowed to be anything but perfect. You’re not allowed to be a freak.”
Each word was a slap to his soul, but it was the pressure of his father’s hands on him, steady and relentless, that made him want to curl in on himself, to disappear entirely.
But he didn’t dare. Not again.
“Let me show you,” his father continued, the cruel tenderness of his touch almost worse than the pain of the file itself. Wolfgang’s breath hitched, his body trembling violently as his father filed away at his horns with horrifying precision. The sharp sting against his skin made him want to scream, but he bit down harder on his lip, his mouth trembling. He couldn’t-- he wouldn’t-- let his father see him break.
“You’ll understand one day,” his father muttered, almost soothingly, as if he were comforting Wolfgang. “You’ll thank me for this. You’ll thank me when the world finally accepts you. When they see you as the man you should be.”
Wolfgang’s stomach churned, a sick knot twisting in his gut as the words settled around him. The man you should be.
That was the lie that had been forced into him his entire life. It had been drilled into him so deeply that, at some point, it had become truth in his own mind. But it wasn’t the truth. Not anymore.
He could feel the tears against his lashes now, silent and heavy, but he wasn’t allowed to move. His father’s hands held him in place, forcing him to look at his own reflection, at the boy whose horns were slowly being filed down to nothing.
The last scrape of the file against his skin made Wolfgang’s breath catch, his eyes closing tightly. When he opened them again, his reflection was almost unrecognizable. The horns were finally gone, but the damage wasn’t just physical. It was in his soul. It was in the way he couldn’t escape the mirror anymore.
His father’s hands lingered on his shoulders, like some sick form of affection. Wolfgang wanted to shudder, but he stayed still, staring into the mirror. His father stepped back, inspecting his work with a cold, satisfied smile.
“You see?” his father murmured, the coldness in his voice somehow making the words sound like praise. “This is how we make you perfect. This is how we make you right.”
Wolfgang couldn’t look at him anymore. His reflection was distorted, his face pale, his eyes glassy. The boy staring back at him wasn’t who he was supposed to be. It was who his father had made him.
“You’ll never have to worry about anyone seeing you for what you are,” his father added softly, almost lovingly, as if this was somehow a comfort.
But it wasn’t.
Wolfgang could never say the words, but in that moment, he knew he had lost himself. He had become what his father wanted.