It might have been strange for him to only think about how cold the ground was. His ears perked at the sound of screams. They got louder and louder like a storm rolling in. It was one powerful storm…
Anxiety pushed his eyelids open. He looked around and there was nothing. Not a single soul. He sits up and runs a hand down his neck. It was a strange feeling coming out of a dream. You can't describe it other then hoping that someone else felt it, that someone else knew it. He removes the blankets around him and stands up. The apartment looks exactly how he left it, eerie. He could almost look into the shadows and expect a gruesome unearthly being to rise upon its high legs and consume him.
He walks over to the window and moves aside the curtains to allow him a vision of the city. It wasn't exactly beautiful scenery. The city was engulfed by broken back roads and purloiners looking for a quick steal. He snarled at the scoundrels. He questions why he limits himself to such a society but his answer comes swiftly reminding himself where exactly he stands, or more importantly where he stood.
He moves over to his old jeans and slips his hand inside the back pocket. He feels the leather and pulls out his wallet. Opening it, he runs a hand down an old photograph, stained yellow over time. Two men are in the picture, both with energy like fire burning in their eyes. Their laughing rings in his ears with its familiarity. He reminisces about the day that such happiness was lost to him. Sometimes he wonders why he keeps that old photograph. He slips it back into his wallet and tosses it onto the bed.
He walks into the bathroom and puts a hand on the counter. He doesn't pause to look at his face anymore. He's seen it more then anyone else. Truthfully he's tired of the thing. Maybe one day he won't need to look at it anymore. Absurdity, he thinks, absolute absurdity…
He begins his morning routine; cleansing himself and making sure that every possible sight of indecency is completely eradicated. He twirls a strand of hair in his finger with disinterest as he advances to his kitchen. He spies a lone fruit, waiting for him to taste it. He picks it up and tosses it to the other hand, as if to test it. He rinses it under the clear water of the sink and nibbles on it in thought.
Maybe one day I will look in the mirror… Maybe one day I won't be tired of this plain face, this repetition of recognition. I've seen it so many times, I've even changed it and rearranged the identity under the skin and yet I can still see this mutilated soul, mangled by time and memories.
He steps back into the bathroom. His head moves up, but his eyes stay fixed onto the gleaming metal of the facet. He can see only an outline of his face in the reflection of it. One step at a time Faceman…