He appeared in the mirror over my shoulder as I brushed my teeth. An eyeless face, glistening fishbelly white; a flat, tiny nose and thin, bloodless lips; long, thin, greasy black hair. I felt that my reflected gaze was met, somehow. Certainly, my attention was fixed, immobile. I could no more move or complete my dental hygiene routine than I could fly. His lips parted, revealing a multitude of translucent, needle-like teeth. I awaited his profession; I felt certain that there would issue some sort of instruction, which I would not be able to deny no matter how distasteful or even immoral. I discovered that I was holding my breath, that I could not in fact draw breath. The face seemed to grow larger in the mirror, as if drawing closer to me, and a froth of tiny bubbles began to spill from between those awful teeth. The face grew larger, drew closer in the mirror, until it simply engulfed my own, superimposed itself on my own reflected image. I was finally allowed to draw breath, choking on the foam of the toothpaste still in my mouth. I coughed, spilling minty froth down my chin, and a sudden sweat broke out all over my face. And I felt how good it was to finally see properly, without the intermediary requirement of fallible organs, liquid-filled orbs always half-popping out of my face.
