He stood in the faded green bathroom, a bar light with two of the four working lights flickered to life, wearing his dingy wife-beater and boxer shorts. He stared into the mirror, his old face staring him back, and ran his hand across the three days worth of stubble that now grew out white on his cheeks, making him feel older than he was. He smacked his lips as he took in his hair, a mangled mess of bed-head and unkemptness that added to his crazier-than-though look. With one hand he scratched what little chest hair he had while he yawned, which lead to a much deeper yawn, his mouth wide, eyes closed, and his arms subconsciously stretching long in either direction. He ran his hand over the stubble on his face and silently cursed whomever it was that thought a clean-shaven face was an appropriate look for a man.
Leaning into the mirror, he stretched his mouth wide, sticking out his tongue making a loud ‘blahhhh’ noise, over exaggerated in order to make the silliness of the whole ritual even more absurd. He paused while looking at his tongue, pockmarked and white, and wondered what that white stuff was and why every morning, no matter how well he brushed the night before, there it was to greet him. Shrugging his shoulders to no one in particular, he let out an audible ‘meh’ as he closed his mouth and turned on the water in the sink.
He looked down at the sink, seeing his orange handled tooth-brush, whose bristles were no better off then his own hair, standing erect in its holder like a little mop-headed soldier. He mockingly stood to attention and feigned a salute as he grabbed it and requested permission to brush. A quick pass over his teeth, gums and tongue, and the toothbrush found itself so much worse for the wear as it sat lopsided in the cup by the sink.
Smacking his lips loudly, he enjoyed the minty fresh taste of after-morning breath and smiled. He leaned into the mirror again, opening his eyes wide, feeling the crust from the sleep break off and overstretched eyelids as sleep finally started to recede from his tired body. Cupping his hands, he splashed the warm water several times over his face, rubbing it into his eyes to clear away the rest of the crusties, and over his head to lay down his hair before he looked back into the mirror, which now bore the battle marks of the just fought water war as droplets rained down on the lower half.
Sighing, letting the water drip from his bristled cheeks, he stared into the mirror again. Resolution filled him as he stripped off his shirt and reached over to turn on the shower in the darkened room. That’s when his eyes caught the large darkened patch of skin on his left pectoral, the blemish that marked the spot which left his ‘permanently disabled’, ending his career on the police force and resigning him to a desk. Running his finger over the up-raised edges, he looked down at the straight-edged razor on the lip of the sink edge.
He reached down, grabbed the shinning silver blade in his hand, looked hard into the mirror, trying to ignore his surroundings. The running water in the shower, the flickering light overhead, the smell of despair that permeated the entire apartment he lived in, all of it fading into the background as he looked at himself hard deciding what to do next.
Raising the razor up to eye level, he grinned at the sharp-edged instrument and said, “I really hate shaving.”
Filed under: Flash Fiction Tagged: TWW
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