I stopped toweling my hair dry when I saw myself in the mirror. No, that's not right. I saw most of myself, and it was two mirrors. Set at a right angle to each other, they did that thing where they reflect you the right way round, instead of mirrored like we're used to. A small gap separated the mirrors. Because of that, I couldn't see my face. It was missing, pinched out of existence. It threw me completely off. Entranced me. I found myself leaning back and forth, trying to see around the obstruction my mind insisted was between my eyes and my reflection.

I kept toweling off but looked at the mirrors every few seconds. My eyeless, pinched face looked back at me each time, confident that it was the genuine article and I the strange reflection. Fully dry, I walked to the door. If I looked to the left, I would see myself as I really was. It would reassure me that the odd, overwhelming feeling that I never had a face was all in my mind, that it was false.

Turning was impossible. No matter how much I tried to twist my neck, turn my back, I couldn't make myself look. I couldn't, because I might not see what I expected. What if I was wrong?

I went to work, but I didn't last long. Too many reflective surfaces. They keep me away from mirrors now. Otherwise I break them, to keep from facing the truth.