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Archie stands before the mirror, forcing his eyes to see the reflection before him. He tries to disassociate himself from the sight, tries to think of it as any man but himself. There is a mesh of hair on his chest, but it doesn't quite hide the scars beneath. There are silvery remnants of punishments and pains that he brought on himself or had brought on him. Each one has a name and a date, each one etched in his mind as well as on his flesh. The newest ones are the cuts across his back, each stroke of the cat like a hiss in the night of breath dared not expelled. His teeth still hurt from clenching through the wad of cloth Sawyer had stuck between them, silencing him as the blows had rained down. Sawyer had ranted in hard whispers near Archie's ear, both of them staring at the defiance in the mirror, the reflection of Archie's blue eyes. "Sawyer," Archie breathes, letting his shirt fall down over the dark red marks that too will someday fade to silver. The memory, however, will remain raw.
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