"We did not change as we grew older; we just became more clearly ourselves."
Moonlight poured in from the high bathroom window and the old man looked into the mirror, beholding his backwards form with an expression of melancholy that only long years of toil could have lent him. His hair was of medium length, white with a few renegade streaks of gray which hung, resigned and limp, down to his ears. He gazed at his face, seeing it was a little gaunt but otherwise normal, except for his eyes. His eyes aquamarine
(bombardier)
with the depth of the ocean, stared through into himself and then downwards to the basin of the sink and imagined that they saw the woman he loved, dancing on the sable surface of the water. On impulse his hands reached for her, creating ripples which distorted, and looking again he saw that it was just his face being reflected, fingers now numb from the icy liquid. Cupping his hands he splashed his face and the sudden shock of cold made his chest heave. He gasped and then clawed at himself, his heart felt full like a landfill in winter, and yet even as panic gripped him he realized that it was no longer beating. Feeling weighted like a sack full of stones he sunk, slumped downwards. As the last whispers of consciousness left him he could have sworn that in the dark water black eyed
(fallen)
angels were swimming upwards to greet him, his head plunged into the water.