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He would do the same thing each day. He would wake, throw the sheets, descend the bed and enter the bathroom. He would piss a toxic yellow sludge, a result of the vitamin pill he took each night. He had learned that the remaining nutrients not readily absorbed by his body would be passed with the remaining wastes left overnight. He stopped taking the pills once, but the color remained the same.

He would look in the mirror and take hold of the blue hand mirror to his left. The hand mirror was his mother’s. Although never given proper denomination, there were objects amassed in his home that he never felt were his own, as though he were constantly borrowing for want of use. These, were his mother’s things.

He would spin round to check the thinning patch of hair on the crown of his head. He started doing this two years ago. His father has a similarly thinned patched, aged appropriately through time. He knew what would become of him, and he felt nothing through such an understanding. This was uncontrollable, an event that has happened long before any evidence of being. He thought perhaps this predetermined existence was fate. As he would stare into the blue hand mirror, however, he thought that he was no longer sixteen.

He would spit into the white tarnished bowl, run water, lift his head and look into his own eyes. There would be nothing left. He knew this would be so, just as he knew the sink would run cold at first and the hair of his crown would increasingly being to fall. Each twitch, blast of color or imperfect pigment of his eye would be superficial. He would wonder how much longer he could hide this.

He would kill the light but the rising sun would refuse to cast shadows on him.