MadCap

Chapter 1
The Man In The Mirror

The wood of the floor creaked as heavy footsteps made way to the base of a marble sink. Stillness defended the room and silence assisted. The hiss of faucet water attacked the silence and steam soon swirled into the air above. As the water worked to fill the sink bowl, two trembling hands slowly descended under cupping and splashing hot water across a burning face slowly sighing and rising to catch a gradual sight of an identical face a mirror. The face steamed with trickling water. Heavy drops of water darkened spots across a broad chest wrapped in a grooved tank top while an extremity obtained a towel and dried the source of the drip. The handsome face in the mirror inspected itself. Shaky hands wiped down, and then up again past the forehead into the hair, reclining the spastic tangle flat. The faucet relaxed. Several drops of sparkling oil fell into the unsteady hand, which then several times fell onto the head, spreading the gleaming oil through. A fine-tooth comb sat on the marble counter, before succumbing to the fingertips of the man in the mirror. With a shaking hand, he raised the comb to his head and attempted to floss it. Struggling to steady his hand, he stroked. He stiffened his arm to comply, but it would not.

“Patience,” he thought. Sliding straight back, every strand of hair was guided slowly by even passing strokes each accompanied by their own minute. Finally, the result prevailed. Straight back was the arrangement, and jet-black was the complexion. Again, the face inspected itself from a fair distance and enjoyed what sight it saw.

The mirror reflected an image of a man, but the man did not reflect the image. The image reflected in every fashion, a respectable, distinct, and powerful man. Though the inner being before the mirror failed to amount, the mind within saw clear this reflection, but failed to conceive its falsity. Before the mirror stood none of this, rather a former this or this, once upon a time. And that is the form the silver slate fails to detail. Through the eye of those close, a beast is seen, but through the eye of those distant, a fine man is seen, yet through the eye of this man, a titan is seen. Beneath the titanic conception, sits silent an over-stretched, deteriorating man with frayed nerves and a shriveled prune of a heart pumping poison through burning veins filled with that which makes this man a beast.

With his hand, he rubbed the sides of his stubbly face. He removed the lid, covering a cup, to reveal a white cream within; and with a fine bristle brush, he emptied it onto his tan cheeks. He raised a brilliant blade to scrape it away, but hesitated before the blade reached his flesh. He stared at the image of his eye reflected in the blade, and became discouraged as he noticed the reflection quaked madly in his own hand. He aggressively sponged it from his mind, and with frustration and uncertain confidence, he sternly brought the blade to his face to observed red blood contrast the white cream. With a sense of personal humiliation and minor shock, he wrapped a small towel around his finger to extract the red from his face side. A few droplets of blood found their way to the steaming sink water, very still and cooling. The clear warmly welcomed the red, and he stood there silent for a moment as he admired the beauty of the red swirling and spreading slowly as if seeking treasures at the depths of the bowl. A quick spasm struck the pit of his stomach, and he recalled vividly the several shades of this color with which he had so casually become familiar; many of which had been spilled by his own hands.

Momentarily, he dwelled upon these thoughts, then polished them and returned them to the collapsing showcase shadowed at the back of his mind. A burst of rage sent the blade across the room. A duet of pain and anger boomed an opera in his mind. He jerked an oak chair from around the opposite wall, separating the bathroom and the bedroom, and placed its back to the front of the sink, and sat. Across from him layed a woman on a low bed. As she rested on her stomach, her head faced him, and her right hand hung exposed. Her fingers hung from the bedside partially resting on the ground and on the third finger reflected a golden ring, which sought to entwine itself side by side with his with which it matched. As she slept across the room, the chair upheld steady the weight of the unsteady body upon it. Slightly rocking in the chair, he placed his eyes on the slumbering eyes of the woman from across and kept their placement. He waited for her wake and anticipated the exposure of her eye. To pass the wait he lifted a half-finished cigarette from an ashtray on the sink counter. He removed the metal butt appendage and aggressively tossed it at the wall above the counter.

“Useless,” he thought disgustedly. “Dames love them things. Caught up in some delusion it makes them look more dignified.” He smirked, “Not to me.”

Added (08/Nov/23, 10:03 Am)
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He struck a matchstick and a venomous hiss sounded while hot orange swallowed the tip. His lips brightened as the smoke crept in and out with his breath. As he sat, the cigarette became half what it was and his patience suffered the same. Tired of waiting, he leaned to his left and tipped the toilet lid. It slammed to its porcelain base and the woman’s sleeping eyes shot open. The light shined dimly from the bathroom as the rays became layered by the mix of hot steam and cloudy cigarette smoke to form a glowing, grey smog.

With the light in her eyes, she whispered his name. “Verne?” She sat up and wiped her eyes. She noticed the cream on his face. “You don’t need to shave everyday, Verne!” She recognized her tone was stern and she retracted with an long innocent yawn. “Why are you sitting there?”

He turned his head to reveal the gash on his cheek. She rolled a hand over her head and thoroughly through her hair, and advanced to get a better look. “What in the devil happened? “ She slightly gasped and reached to his cheek. He quickly grabbed her hand and threw it down, and began harshly. “Come on. Why would you do that!? Why would you touch it?!” Anger overtook his face and the tone of his voice.

There was a silence. The carpet felt the sole of her feet as she backed up a step. She drifted her head to the side, and he leaned to the side to let his angry eyes follow hers until they met, but again she looked away. His stare softened apologetically but remained as hard as stern as he pointed to the blade near the wall on the floor. “I need you to do it.”

She began to question why the blade lay there, but withdrew, for she wished not to spoil the situation further. She retrieved it and rinsed it. She turned to place herself on his lap facing him, her legs around him and the chair, and for a moment, he felt a brief forgotten spark of sensation, both of surprise and of desire. He again peered into her face with wondering eyes; she noticed and misinterpreted his queer expression and responded bluntly. “What?”

Foolish and awkward he felt as he took his eyes off her. He tilted his head, and placed it to the ceiling as she scraped beneath his chin with the blade. His feeling faded, and that unsettled edge returned both to his face and his state of being. She worked slowly, periodically dipping the blade into the sink, making sure not to cut him and duplicate his bloody mistake. He broke her thoughts. “Get every one,” he demanded softly, “I mean every single one!”

With this statement, she used it to extend the engagement and cherish the moment, as she felt his face with her delicate fingers and pretended to search for missed spots. Feeling the obvious encroach, she concluded. “That’s all I can do.”

She dropped the blade into the sink, flung a towel around his neck and began to pat his face dry. He caught a glimpse of her eyes deep in his when the rising and falling towel allowed it. Impatient, he slowly but effectively pushed her from him, and he rose to quickly exit the bathroom. She enjoyed the intimacy but Verne lacked the patience to engage. She plopped onto his chair and simmered in frustration. He stopped at the end of the bed to fill a white shirt, and exited the small, dim, bedroom. He warned as he drifted. “Leon will be over in a bit."

(Keep in mine that this guy is who I kept in mind as Verne while writting the story: http://tinypic.com/view.php?pic=wl39dk&s=4 )
(And this is who I kept in mind as his girl (Zoey): http://tinypic.com/view.php?pic=2djtev8&s=4 )