As he looked into the bathroom mirror, he realised that he could never be normal. There would never be a face to stare back at him and say hello. It had been so long since he had been able to see himself smile, that he had forgotten what it looked like entirely and he didn't know what it meant to be self conscious. Only by feeling the contours of his mouth stretch could he become self aware, only by touching his face could he gain some knowledge of what he looked like. He had no use for eyes at all, so he had better gouge them out and do it quickly, so that he could at least feel that he had a believable excuse for not being able to see, by never having to view an empty canvas again.
He leaned over the basin and pressed his head against the wall. The pain was a relief as it meant that he had some feeling to occupy his head to take away the thoughts of emptiness. His left hand was next to his head at the same height, his right was holding onto the mirror. It gently slid down towards the bottom of the glass, embracing it's coolness, the condensation a driving force throughout the fingertips. It was a ticklish sort of feeling, the kind that he wasn't used to, but what he enjoyed. He gazed at his hands for a moment, at least he could see them and he knew that he was real. He moved his fingers in different directions to make sure before he turned on the cold faucet and pushed the plug into its hole.
As the basin slowly filled with water, he put both hands onto its edge and stared at the plughole for a moment. He hoped that a priest wasn't around to bless it as one of his biggest fears was scalding. He was glad that he never existed during the reign of Henry the VIII in England, as he couldn't have bared to witness one guilty of poisoning's fate, he did however, agree with the dissolution of the monasteries and that was even whilst he was alive.
When the basin was full, he washed in the water, but struggled to watch himself do so, for as he plunged a fist into it, it was clearly visible with no colour around it, again no reflection could be seen. At least it didn't burn like the woman. Tried to save her but couldn't, a trial that resulted in nothing but forty plus scars which took a while to heal, even for him. It was difficult to cover up the sores for a while, but he agreed that he'd masked the pain well. A smile grew on Angel's face as the water turned to a crimson colour which swirled around in clusters. One particle joined another in holy matrimony forever in union to form a long red tail until Angel pulled out the plug and let the blood drip down into the gutter. Rather like his own love life, he thought to himself, his short term relationship of four years to Buffy had certainly gone down the drain. He thought that someday he could love again, but for the moment one of the things he didn't do was date.
He looked at the towel, it was white, pure virgin white and now he'd have to stain it with the milk of the dead. He didn't like the thought, but he was dripping wet, so what choice did he have? Angel scrubbed himself dry then threw the towel into the trash can, he would deal with it later. The visions it brought were just too horrific to imagine and for the first time in 200 years, he felt sick. At least Spike could shove a beer down his throat when he wanted to, and get so drunk that he'd forget that he didn't have an inch of life in him. The only thing that was in Angel's fridge, were twelve pints of pigs blood from the butcher's shop on Fifth Avenue.