I am Thomas's reflection.

Every morning, he rises from sleep and walks into the bathroom.

...and he makes faces.

I am so tired of the faces. He makes them for at least half an hour. Mocking, ridiculous faces.

I have no choice but to mimic his every action, although inside I am seething with anger.

He does this every day... well, USED to.

One morning he awoke as usual, and entered the bathroom.

On this particular morning, against his will, he picked up a pair of scissors.

On this particular morning, against his will, he gripped those scissors tightly in his fist.

...on this particular morning, entirely against his will, he plunged those scissors directly into his right eye.

Thomas screamed, and screamed. I screamed and screamed too - with one difference.

I can't mimic his pain.



Just.

His.

Face.