Faces

I am Thomas' reflection. Every morning, he rises from sleep and he walks into the bathroom, and he makes faces. I am tired of the faces. He makes them for at least half an hour. Mocking, ridiculous faces. I have no choice but to mimic his every action, although on the inside I am seething with anger. He does this everyday… or at least, he used to. One morning, he awoke as usual and entered the bathroom. On this particular morning, he picked up a pair of scissors against his will. He was mine to control. On this particular morning, he gripped the scissors tightly in his fist... and plunged them into his right eye. Thomas screamed. I screamed too, but with one difference: I can't mimic his pain. Just his face.