Disclaimer/Authors Notes: I own nothing. The depictions of Trich are all based on my own personal experiences with the disorder (minus the bit at the end). How people actually handle it can vary. WARNING: Depiction is very descriptive.
The young Adam Ross sat hunched over a desk in a dorm in downtown Manhattan. His Forensics text book opened to the middle of a chapter, his eyes fixed on the page but not actually seeing the information before him. His concentration was elsewhere. The fingers of his right hand worked franticly at the stubbly eyelashes of his right eye. He had been pulling for what seemed like only a moment or so, but what was actually rounding on close to an hour. Between his thumb and index fingers on his left hand he absentmindedly rubbed an already pulled eyelash.
He could feel it - that one eyelash that was bothering him; that was screaming to be pulled out, but every time his finger nails grasped it he would exhale or not pull hard enough and he would lose it again. He had to get this one - just this one and he would be able to move on. Other eyelashes started to litter the page of the book laid out in front of him, all wrong ones; they didn't count.
His fingers started to hurt and occasionally he would pinch his eyelid causing him a split second of sharp pain and making him let out a squeak of pain. But that pain was not enough to deter himself from the relief and pleasure he would feel at pulling this damned eyelash out.
Finally his fingernails closed around it and he tugged with just the right amount of force that the follicle gave up and released the eyelash from his eyelid to his fingers. The relief at finally having 'the one' spread over him like an exquisite hot water bath. The fingers of his left hand abandoned the previous eyelash as he replaced that one with this one and rubbed it between his fingers.
Then his eyes focused on his book again. He saw the alarming amount of eyelashes scattered on the page and then the fear kicked in. He hadn't realized he pulled so many out in his attempt to get at this one. He began to panic about if what he had done was as noticeable as he was convinced it would be. Standing up he walked out of the room and into his bathroom, never once letting go of that eyelash, instead squeezing it tighter for fear he might drop it and the pleasure of being able to feel it between his fingers would leave. He turned the light on and moved close to the mirror to assess the amount of damage that was done.
The entire top row of lashes were missing from his right eye. On the left only a few stubs of new lashes were growing in from the last time he had pulled them out. He hadn't pulled this many in a couple months, he was doing so well and now he had gone and ruined it like he always does. The feeling of relief dissipated as frustration kicked in. How long was he going to keep doing this? It had been years since he started; years since he began trying to stop. But this was it. This was enough now. He had to do something.
Anger took over his body. The anger was at nothing but himself and his disorder - Trichotillomania. Anger turned into blind rage as he stared into the mirror, eyes transfixed at the deformity he had brought upon himself. Without knowledge of what he was doing his right hand formed a fist and smashed through the bathroom mirror. Pieces of glass fell into the sink below it and some tiny shards stuck in his knuckles and blood began to leak from their cuts.
His reflection was distorted in the shattered glass. He stepped away from the mirror and unclenched his fist. Looking down at his hand to examine the damage he had once again inflicted upon himself he noticed that eyelash was still stuck to his opposite thumb. He almost cried. In fact would have cried if this had happened at a different time in his life, but a feeling other than sadness overtook him at that moment.
Determination. The feeling grew stronger as he looked back into the mirror at his appearance. Just one thought was ringing loud and clear within his brain:
This ends tonight.