He stares into the mirror, which is cracked underneath; marred and browning at the edges. Breathes deeply three times and looks into the wide eyes. There is some redness there, some puffiness under them. The pores on his nose seem over-large, like wide pits. Where to begin?
He begins by splashing water on his face. It takes several dips of the finger into the stream to get the temperature right. One tap turns anticlockwise, the other clockwise. He growls when, at first, the water is too hot. The tap stays running and slowly begins to fill up the clogged sink.
There is a mirror in this room too, although it is smooth, oval and new. The sink is bright turquoise, empty and shining. The eyes looking into it are redder, and tears flow steadily from them. But they seem by the contours and lines to be younger: more restful and more rested. This room looks strange. Not strange in the sense of being unusual, but unfamiliar. Completely unfamiliar. This whole house is unfamiliar. His right hand, held up, seems unfamiliar too. There is only one conclusion possible: insanity. Insanity is creeping up on him. It is this place, this room, this strangeness, this situation. Digging his nails into his palm, he wills the pain to act as a catalyst to burn this all away. ‘A platinum and rhodium catalyst may be used to facilitate the conversion of carbon monoxide to carbon dioxide’ he whispers to the mirror. The words survive in condensation for a few seconds. These are words an insane person might say, he chides himself.
A voice calls from the kitchen. He breathes deeply, trying to calm himself; a kaleidoscope trying to turn back to a single cohesive shape. Fail. Fail. Fail. Looking into those red eyes again he pats them dry with two folded pieces of toilet paper. A shaking hand is raised to the level of the face. Nothing is working properly any more. He looks down at his left hand as it clinks against the porcelain. The voice calls again.
He looks up into the ugly brown mirror, willing some change to explode out of it. Nothing happens for several seconds while he holds his breath. He breathes out in a long stream that condenses around the flecks of dirt on the mirror, like electrons clouding around nuclei. His left hand clinks against the porcelain. The circle is something that can be broken, just here where the flux raises slightly from the surface. He carefully rubs his finger with the translucent yellow sliver of soap.