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The rythmic sound of breathing is all he can hear. Staring at his own reflection with those pale blue, nearly violet, eyes. It stares back, its gaze boring into the back of his skull. "This is ridiculous" he finds himself thinking. Yet he can't avert his eyes. Those are the eyes of a murderer, more than that. These are the eyes he looked at his mother with when she was clutching his shirt begging for mercy.

The memory hits him so forcefully he has to sit down. He thought he had repressed everything from that day, but no. It's surfaced. It's almost as if he can smell the metallic scent of blood once more, visions of blood seeping through the sheer fabric of his mother's nightgown, the bloodied letter opener still clutched in a bloodied hand.
Ten years had passed since then.
Ten years filled with blood, sawdust and a nearly obsessive building of pianos.

Truth to be told he didn't care much for them.
Truth to be told he despised them.
Truth to be told he could not bear the thought of having murdered her.

He sighed. Looking up from the sink. Meeting the eyes of his reflection again. Red eyes. Eyes filled with tears.
They perplexed him. He hadn't cried since he was a small child. Not even when she was lying on the ground, her torso littered with wounds, had he cried.

Calmly he picked up his phone, ruffled through the contacts nearly automatically. Pressed her name.
Beep... beep... beep...
Before she even had a chance to greet him he spoke. "Are you busy?" No, was her answer, of course. She never turned him down. "Twenty minutes."
And he put down the phone. Stared into those unforgiving eyes of his. And he cried until the doorbell rang.