He stares out the window, pouring. It’s a confronting black night, and it’s not letting up anytime soon. Why can’t he make sense of it? There’s nothing to make out. All that’s present to him is the regret and sickness he can feel all over his face. Chiselling me. It makes the underneath of his beard restless. It’s revolting. As he scratches at the growth attached to his mouth, it feels lighter than it should. Pulling his hand away, he counts seventeen little hairs in his palm: three, the aging brown he’s grown accustomed to over the last fifteen years, the other fourteen like ash. Makes sense. With the handful of miniscule hairs, sat as his nasal exhales spread a pensive fog across the glass, he attempts contemplation. He stares intently at them as if he will find meaning in them.
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. . . Nothing is happening. Just listen, please. He has a wistful sense of hope. This is key. His attention remains on the hairs in his hand. The glass rattles as the world outside becomes increasingly vicious and agitated, while he stares and stares. And stares. You have to. Not that he’s noticed. Even if he wanted to divert his attention to look out there for a moment, he would still see absolutely nothing. Sometimes, I wonder if you really even care. The floorboard creaks, chuckles… But no one is with him. What did you say? He slowly moves his right eye for a peep. The left remains obstinately fixed on the collection of hairs unchanging. He listens as the right one sloshes over with reluctance. He wants to move it faster but it moves in its own time. Who are you to me?
As the right eye takes the turn downwards to inspect the floor, the window smashes in a flash. The wind wants him elsewhere. Try it, I dare you. His right eye won’t stop dragging itself inside the socket. It begins making rounds along the edges, making sure he hears every detailed, unique, pulsating, purposeful movement. The wind screams with a stark depth towards him, but his left eye keeps him and the hairs in place. The ashy snow-coloured ones start to grow. I need more.
The wind is not pleased, right eye now fully hyperactive. It is flickering, spasming, in, out, in, out. He must be made a lesson of. Hail begins to stream in on the wind, pummeling him. Despite the cuts and bruises he’s gaining, he knows what is important. I know you can feel me. The hairs are now many metres long—taking shape like thread, forming into something. The wind sends a sharp and forceful piece of hail directly towards the side of his face. He spits blood everywhere. On the panelled wood wall in front of him. On the thinly cushioned seat. On the materialising strands of hair. There’s a hole in the left side of his face now. Why do you want this for me?
He can feel himself growing weak. Right eye is calling upon all the remaining energy to leave him, tugging the optic nerve vigorously. Left eye, closing. The wind slowly shuts its mouth. It knows it’s almost time. I just… need to see this through. As the blanched, greyed hairs finish taking shape, he collapses onto the floor. The hole in his cheek corrupts and rots away his entire body. He is powdered rust wafting away through the catastrophe once a window. Left only now are his eyes on the floor. They lay amongst the debris of shredded curtain, splintered wood and glass shards, sweating.
Now fully formed, the hair that once belonged to him is now a family of three mice. They are rubbing their faces clean. They seem confused, but they know that this place is no longer habitable. As one scurries away, the others follow, and the eyes that once belonged to a man are left. In peace? Solitude? Torment. Heaven.
Featured image from Æon Flux (1992) episode ‘The Mirror’ written and directed by Peter Chung.
