Folded faces

Superficially existence is pretty but scratch the surface and there is almighty horror. The fleeting face in the morning mirror appears charming and familiar but the analyst has always chosen not to look him in the eye, for if his attention once fixed on the reflection he could no longer ignore it.

A possible future hovers between their gaze and to believe in that future he must understand his past. Turning from the mirror he goes about his daily business yet from that moment onward sees, feels and hears nothing. Seasons heat and chill him but he fails to notice for he is inside his own head…

He runs blindly along dark inner passages, screaming as unspeakable hordes grab and tear, their every touch like ice. He cracks his head on a heavy projection and collapses face first in the blackness. No one is here to help him, he is alone. Despite horrific injury he hauls himself to his feet and his questing fingers find a door handle. The door yields under his pressure and he stumbles into a small candle lit room.

“Anaesthetic would ease the pain in my head,” he thinks and as luck would have it, a bottle and glass swim into view on a low table. In the gloom he breaks the seal and ignoring the glass, lifts the bottle to his lips. He pours whisky into his throat and swallows. Pours and swallows, pours and swallows repeatedly until the bottle is two thirds empty for this is the only way he knows.

Sweet relief calms his aching skull and the fiery grain courses through every vein. “I can do this, I know I can, I really can be normal,” he pleads with himself. Yet a glance at shelves behind him reveals the twinkling contours of twenty more bottles which he must consume in order to be normal. He will have to pace himself, maybe formulate an action plan. Unsteadily he stands and thinks thoughts thickly. A bottle in each pocket, two inside his shirt and of course he could carry one in each hand.

Desperate sadness overwhelms him and he begins to cry. “But I need to take it all with me,” he screams. “I need to take the fucking lot…” But his grip is weak and bottles tumble to the floor. One bounces amazingly before shattering and leaking its lifeblood.

He shoulders the door open violently and dashes into the corridor. Sprinting away from the scene he spews whisky in frightening spurts. He keeps his gaze ahead, ignoring the voices calling from rooms either side. “Fuck them, I thought I cancelled all acquaintances.” Rotting remnants lie in every corner, decaying corpses with wild ugly grins. All life is as foul as death.

"… if I see you tomorrow, don’t make me do that again. Please don’t make me look inside my head.”

His reflection stares impassively back and speaks softly, “tomorrow there will be a different horror.”

“The paper holds their folded faces to the floor
And every day the paperboy brings more.”Pink Floyd – Brain Damage